


Road Trip, Lips Slip

by Tav



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Hate Crimes, Love/Hate, M/M, Road Trips, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tav/pseuds/Tav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s supposed to be a simple road trip. <br/>A simple road trip in Eames’ black metal death trap un-roadworthy van. <br/>A simple trip that will get Arthur to New York in time to stop Robert Fischer, the love of his life, from saying ‘I do’ to another man. <br/>But in the suddenly full van, his best friend, Yusuf is becoming confusing and opinionated. The boy he loathes, Eames is uncompromisingly teasing.  Ariadne is too young for this. Mal is too mature. And the hitchhiker Eames insisted on picking up just might be a murderer. <br/>Or the one where Arthur makes the mistake of going on a road trip with the craziest members from his LGBTA (Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Anonymous) group all in the name of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got me a 2 week solid holiday coming up in 2 weeks. No phones, no appointments, no people, no projects, just me and my thoughts… which means I’m gonna be writing like a mad person. Thought I might start this one up as well as a few more just to see what I'm gonna favor during my time off, so comments always welcome and yay for time off.   
> Unedited at the moment. Hope you try enjoy….

“I’ll do it.” Eames slams both palms down hard on the table as he slides into the booth. 

Arthur and Yusuf share equally confused looks from across the British boy who is questionably rain-soaked for such a cloudless, sunny day. But Arthur has learned not to expect any sort of normality when it comes to Eames. 

“We haven’t even told you why we asked you to meet us here,” Yusuf finally says. Only because Arthur refuses to speak to Eames unless it is absolutely, catastrophically necessary. 

“Come on,” Eames’ smile is smug and confident as he leans back in his seat, crossing tattooed arms over a possibly tattooed chest. Arthur has seen telltale swirls of dark ink above nipples on the days that Eames decides to wear napkin-thin t-shirts. If anyone asks, Arthur will say that he was only staring at Eames’ chest because Eames teeth are crooked and lips are disgustingly oversized and his eyes … Eames’s eyes are…. Arthur diverts his gaze away from Eames’ eyes when the other boy wags his eyebrows at him. “Two good-looking, slightly dorky gay virgins phoning me out of nowhere to meet at a shady cafeteria across town. When you’re offered a threesome like this, boys, you don’t look a bloody gift horse in the mouth.” 

“I’m leaving,” Arthur is already standing before announcing and Eames has the audacity to look perplexed by his annoyance. It’s Yusuf’s death grip on his arm that keeps him from making it all the way to the door. 

“Arthur, “ Yusuf is trying to drag a very reluctant Arthur back to the booth where Eames is eating fries off of Arthur’s plate, completely unaffected by the fact that he has been left alone. When Eames helps himself to the last bit of Yusuf’s burger, Arthur is certain this was a bad idea with the amount of red he’s seeing in such a short amount of time. “Breathe. You know it’s just how he is. Ignoring him will be worth it. You know it.” 

And Yusuf is right. Arthur hates how right Yusuf is the second Robert Fischer’s brilliantly big baby-blue eyes float ever so vividly in his mind. 

You’re right,” Arthur sighs and relents and sulks all the way back to the table. 

“So how are we doing this then?” Eames pops the last of Yusuf’s burger into his mouth, leaning over the table before the other two boys are even sitting. “Who’s catching, who’s pitching? Who’s supplying the baby oil and condoms? “

“None of that, Eames,” Yusuf says quickly because it looks as though Arthur is about to dream up a pistol and a decent alibi. 

“I’m not so sure bare backing it on your first time is such a good ide-”

“Shut up, Eames. Just shut the fuck up,” Arthur snaps. “This is not about a threesome, okay. It’s nothing to do with sex. And even if we were considering having one, it certainly would not include you. God, why’s everything always about sex with you? And where the fuck do you get off assuming that we’re virgins?” 

“But you are, aren’t you?” Eames never loses his grin and Arthur is officially at his wits end. 

“Arthur and I-,” Yusuf intervenes yet again, “-need your help.” 

“If it isn’t about bumping fun bits,” Eames ignores Yusuf and leers at Arthur, “what is it then, darling?” 

“We are planning a little road trip,” Yusuf rethinks this, keeping a careful eye on Arthur who just stares at the table in front of him. The redness in Arthur’s cheeks makes it obvious that he is well aware of the way Eames’ eyes never leave his face. Yusuf thinks Arthur should be used to it by now since it happens far too often in group sessions. “It’s not so little actually. We need to get to New York.” 

“And you need directions?” Eames asks, ruffling his own hair in a way that makes little drops of water splash onto the wooden surface between the three of them. Arthur frowns up at Eames when two drops nearly land on his fingers and one actually does form a tiny ripple in his soda. He pushes the glass aside. 

“Hah bloody hah,” Yusuf rolls his eyes but annoys Arthur by actually chuckling before continuing. “You still have that van of yours?” 

And the cogs in Eames mind seem to be working as a frown plays over his face. “Clarissa? Of course I do.”

“Well, you see-”

“We need a ride,” Arthur blurts out because this meeting is honestly going on for longer than necessary, “and you’re the only one we know with a car.”

“We’re willing to pay,” Yusuf adds in quickly at the raise of Eames’ chipped brow. 

“You need a ride,” Eames finally speaks slowly, picking sesame seeds out of his teeth with his baby finger. “And you’re willing to pay.” 

“Can’t get any more straightforward than that,” Yusuf shrugs. 

Then Eames leans forwards again, face serious. “I’m not trying to be funny here, but there is this new fabulous invention called public transportation.” 

“Look, Eames,” Yusuf reasons with direct gestures of his hands, “we’ve weighed this all out. And truth be told, between us, you will be making a decent amount and it will still be more cost effective for us. And you said you have no plans for break. And we’re three friends; it’s bound to be a lot of fun.”

“Arthur can’t stand me.” 

“No,” Yusuf drags the word on too long as if he is buying himself some time to lie. “He does like you…in his own way.” 

“I want to hear it from him,” Eames’ smirk returns as he nods in the dark haired boy’s direction. “Tell me how much you like me, Arthur.” 

“Did he say yes?” her voice is a breath of fresh air as Mal shoves herself into the booth beside Eames, almost kisses his cheek, but rethinks the otherwise natural exchange between them when she sees the state he’s in. “Why are you wet?” 

“Long story,” Eames grins, wrapping an arm around her tiny protesting frame and soaking her pretty cream shirt in the process. “What on earth are you doing here, love?” 

“I couldn’t wait any longer for the judgment,” she inches away from Eames. “Are we going on this road trip or not?” 

“What,” Eames’ genuine shock makes him chuckle shortly. “You too? Has everyone been planning this behind my back?” 

“No way,” it startles all of them but Eames when Ariadne pops out from behind the awful red partition between theirs and one booth further down. “No, I refuse to be the only one not going. If Mal’s going, then so am I.” 

“What the fuck?” Arthur asks no one in particular.

“Well I told Ariadne that you two were going to proposition me,” Eames chuckles. “And I needed a witness didn’t I. In case one of you decided to flake out.” 

“Well this is better than sex,” Ariadne gets up and joins their booth, forcing Arthur and Yusuf to squash closer together. “I. Want. To. Go.” 

And then an argument breaks out about how it was only supposed to be Arthur, Yusuf and Mal. Then Ariadne questions Arthur about who made him king. And Yusuf starts calculating how the extra money would do the trip good. And Ariadne sticks her tongue out at Arthur who is agreeing with Mal that Ariadne is too young to be so far away from home without any parental guidance. 

And then Eames slams his palm down on the table. 

“Shut it, all of you,” Eames snaps, clearly and uncharacteristically annoyed. “It’s my car init? If anyone gets to say who stays and who goes or if we all even bloody go at all, it’s me, yeah.”

The table remains silent as they all gel over the truth behind Eames’ words. The unreasonableness of their outburst. The probability that none of it might happen at all. It’s only Yusuf who catches the tiny smirk that ghosts over Eames’ face. 

“I call shotgun,” Yusuf says.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Miles is a smart man. He is strongly against dishonestly, but believes that perfectly evading the truth isn’t fibbing at all. And when it comes to painting false art, he is an abstract genius.

He was once an excellent professor who’d been improperly discharged from his teaching post when the university’s board of directors found out that the gentleman he lived with was not just a friend. But Mr. Miles is also a man of extreme class. And so instead of fighting the board over nonsensical matters, he decided to redirect his energy on righting his many own juvenile wrongs through other young people who still possessed the chance of taking the risks he had been too afraid to take for far too many years. Too many of what could have been the best years of his life, as he always put it.

Arthur was sixteen when he first heard about the secret syndicate. He’d been shopping with his mother -or as he liked to call it ‘his weekly sentence for lacking crimes’- when a young man had handed his mother a flyer. Arthur had rolled his eyes when his mother skimmed through the pamphlet, squealed at the half off sale and scurried into the clothing store. Then Arthur stopped following her in when he felt long fingers circle his arm. 

“It’s in the community center. Room 17,” the mouse-faced boy had whispered as he pulled an entirely different flyer from the bottom of his stack, folded it one handedly and shoved it into Arthur’s back pocket. “Tell no one.” 

Then Arthur had scurried into the store at the sound of his mother calling after him, the piece of paper burning a hole into the back of his jeans the entire time. And after he’d gotten home and packed the groceries and fed the dog and acted as monotonously monotonous as what was expected of him, Arthur had closed his bedroom door and taken in every single black inked lettering three times over and once more.

A number of things had plagued Arthur’s mind the succeeding week, denial being the first emotion to hit him the hardest. How on earth did mouse-boy have the audacity to just assume Arthur would be interested in joining a group of sexually confused weirdo’s whining about their daddy issues and not being hugged enough when they were five years old? Arthur was absolutely fine continuing doing exactly what he had been doing for years. Hiding in layers of his cousin’s extremely expensive hand-me-downs given to him by his wealthy but thrifty Aunt Ellen. A new waistcoat came in nearly fortnightly because Benjamin found it completely insufferable being seen in the same outfit more than once. 

Arthur was fine continuing to bury himself in too much extra homework and chess club tournaments and extra debate programs. Anything to keep him in a room with four walls and fully dressed peers. Anything to avoid sports fields and short shorts and testosterone drenched locker-rooms. 

Arthur most certainly did not need group therapy to help him with anything because there simply wasn’t anything irregular about him. 

And then Arthur had found himself feeling rather inquisitive. Found himself wondering what it would feel like to be in a room full of people like that. Girls who liked girls. Boys who liked boys. Both who liked both. Girls who were born in the wrong bodies and vice versa. Boys who also thought that Tommy Miller who sat in front of him in math class had a distractingly firm bum, deliciously broad shoulders and a back that had absolutely no right to demand ownership over the adjective ‘gorgeous’. 

Then Arthur felt downright annoyed, because a single, A5, thoroughly worn piece of paper should not have possessed the ability to make him question himself so extensively. Not when Arthur had drafted out the perfect covenant with his cognizant self. One that clearly stipulated that his subconscious was to remain the only part of himself that was permitted to indulge in on how it would truly feel like to press his lips against another boy’s. To run his fingers over a flat, strong chest, brush past furry armpits only to wrap around a sweaty, contoured back. Belly to belly and groin to groin. 

Finally, Arthur had felt frustrated. It was unfair that those people were able to meet up three times a week. Share and talk and laugh and cry while he pretended it was normal to sleep in at 7pm every night so that his mother would remain under the impression that he didn’t hear her breakdown every evening as she numbed herself to sleep with cheap vodka. Arthur’s father leaving hadn’t been easy on either of them, but it had been irrevocably damaging for his mom. 

So Arthur finally relented, regretting his decision the second he’d stepped foot into the small prefab and all eyes had fallen on him. And Arthur would have bolted and never looked back were it not for mouse-boy, the very boy who started this all, coaxing him further in and offering him a seat with too much enthusiasm and failed encouragement. 

Arthur soon found out that mouse-face boy’s name was Nash, and Nash was viewed as something of a legend in the group. The fearless recruiter. The one who smirked through the threats and rolled his eyes at the concept of the closet. He oozed confidence and responsibility with a fine streak of rebellion, but nothing that landed him in trouble with the law. 

Not like Eames. Eames who can’t seem to go a full month without being handcuffed and tucked into the back of a vehicle with flashing blue and red lights. 

Arthur also found out that Nash was ‘sort-of-dating’ the most gorgeous boy that Arthur had ever laid eyes on. The sweet, shy, humble, Robert Fischer. The boy with the floppy auburn hair, flawlessly aligned face and intolerably, feloniously blue eyes. Arthur had found himself longing for those pink lips long before they even parted. And when they did, Arthur was certain he was going to die right then and there with the way the Rs curled around Robert’s tongue when he said Arthur’s name. 

Not at all like Eames. Eames who eliminates the most important consonants and makes Arthur’s name sound more like Awthah. Arthur is still convinced that Eames is forging the accent, because there is absolutely no way that anyone can sound that Britishly British by accident. 

And when Arthur had found out that there was not only one, but two British boys in group, he’d only just barely held back a comment skating around the edges of an invasion. But Yusuf had been an intriguing delight from the moment he started rattling on about Shark Week on The DISCOVERY Channel and from there it didn’t take long before the two were meeting regularly outside of group.

Arthur made a note of crossing the street, ducking into aisles or –because one time he had absolutely no other choice- hiding in the ladies room of a Starbucks whenever he happened to run into Eames outside of group. Or someone who even slightly resembled the tattooed delinquent. Arthur may have been mistaken that one time he saw ‘Eames’ take a seat in the front row of The Lorax on a quiet Sunday morning. But Arthur never took any chances and so as soon as the lights had gone off, he had scurried out of the cinema, popcorn completely untouched. 

He knew that it might be a tad childish, but he never lost sleep over it. Not when Ariadne’s infantile behavior made him feel a few years past thirty. And not just because she always wore a red hoodie that reminded Arthur of an emo Little Red Riding Hood going through puberty. Not even because she constantly sat crossed legged on the already uncomfortable community center chairs like Avril Lavigne on The Oprah Winfrey Show. Ariadne wasn’t a bad kid, but Arthur couldn’t quite see her past the age of seven with the way she found every single stupid joke that Eames made worth laughing at. Laughing at and then repeating to anyone who had been fortunate enough to miss it the first time around. 

Yet somehow, Eames, with the four year advantage over her, still manages to come off a good five years younger every time. More so when he showed up to group munching on a tiny burger bought solely due to the fact that it came with a Minions’ toy.   
Between Eames’ craziness, Ariadne’s adolescent social awkwardness, Yusuf’s prodigious intellect, Nash’s boy scout bravado and Robert’s impossible perfection, Mal seemed to be just about the only one normal in the group. And not just because she was literally the only straight one there.

Mal was the gorgeous, adopted daughter of Mr. Miles and his life partner, Mr. Saito. She was courteous and graceful but fiery, sitting in on every session cleverly offering advice and a shoulder and donuts on happier days. She was the product of two loving fathers, her genuine smile exuding the type of happiness that can only come from an entirely open and happy household. 

Not at all like Eames. Arthur had spent many afternoons cringing through tales of how Eames’ alcoholic father constantly chases him around the trailer with a butcher knife because Eames refuses to stop dipping his wick in other boys’ hot wax, as he so graphically liked to put it. Arthur shuddered whenever Eames showed up with a black eye and busted lip, the boy still grinning that crooked smirk as he tried to convince Mr. Miles that calling CPS would only make matters worse. 

All this is why Arthur’s eyes keep snapping to the door whenever the wind causes it to rattle. Arthur seems to be the only one conveniently wary as he looks around the trailer in the back yard of Eames’ parents’ questionable house. Eames is on the bed with Mal, giggling and blowing bubbles that keep popping against the sleekly gelled hair tucked behind Arthur’s ear. Ariadne and Yusuf are cross legged in front of a tiny box television, cursing as their vehicles seem to be doing more damage to each other than the city they are illegally drag racing through. Arthur ignores all of their disinterest and carries on drawing red circles on the map splayed out in front of him. Arthur prefers it this way, having full control over every stop from Wisconsin to New York. Undisturbed and calculated to the mile. Perfect precision, avoidance of tolls and the dodgier areas. Arthur smiles when he’s able to drop the route’s time from the estimated nineteen hours to a good sixteen. And he pats himself on the back because he did it all avoiding Detroit entirely. 

“We have to pass through Detroit,” Eames says casually, throwing Arthur’s perfectly drafted map aside to continue blowing bubbles. 

“It really isn’t necessary.” Arthur frowns, straightening his work of art at the corner where Eames has successfully set it askew in under a minute of being in his possession. 

“Yes, it is.” Eames mirrors Arthur’s knotted features. “I will never hear the end of it if my mates find out I was passing through and failed to say hello.” 

Arthur tenses. Of course Eames has friends in Detroit. 

“Isn’t it a bit-” Arthur searches for the right word and then abandons politeness altogether because Eames and polite never fall in the same sentence unless isn’t is between them, “-dangerous. I mean, will we be safe?” 

Eames throws his head back in bitter laughter that sits horribly in Arthur’s stomach. “Are you fearful that Eminem is going to jump out the bushes and rap battle you to death?”

Arthur rolls his eyes when Ariadne bursts out laughing. 

“My route is perfect. And safe. And perfect.,” Arthur holds the map in front of Eames’ face as if that will get the other boy’s undivided attention. Two bubbles burst against its glossy surface, with it Arthur’s patience. Never before has he been so pleased for his well-oiled reserve tank of composure.

“It would be sort of nice to see the sites,” Mal reasons and Arthur is reminded of her pointless crush on the British offender if she is really calling ‘crime central’ the sites. 

“I agree,” Ariadne chimes in. “This trip isn’t just about you getting laid, Arthur. Where’s your sense of adventure.” 

“Excuse me?” Eames sits up.

“I prefer to keep that particular sense as far away as possible from my practicality, thank you,” Arthur ignores Eames as he folds up his map.

“Which is probably why Robert ran off with Nash in the first place,” Yusuf mutters. It’s so low that Arthur almost doesn’t hear it. From the twisting ache in his chest, Arthur really wishes he hadn’t heard it. Ariadne’s muttered ouch doesn’t help at all either.

“Thanks,” Arthur finally breaks the awkward silence as he drops himself onto a beanbag chair, wounded. Yusuf puts the game on pause and Ariadne expresses her annoyance with a punch to his arm. 

“Arthur,” Yusuf sighs, “don’t take it the wrong way. Facts are facts. Robert gave you a chance, you didn’t take it and so he went with the more exciting offer. The more exciting guy.” 

“Gave you a chance?” Eames is outwardly frowning at Arthur who is staring blankly at nothing in particular. “I’m sorry, what is he talking about, muffin?” 

“Arthur and Robert had a thing,” Ariadne rolls her eyes as she resumes the game and unfairly knocks Yusuf off the road. 

“It wasn’t a thing,” Arthur sighs. “It was a… moment. I dunno, I could’ve been reading it wrong.” 

“You weren’t reading it wrong,” Yusuf puts his controller down and faces Arthur. Arthur truly hates it when his best friend runs out of sugar to coat shit. Especially since Yusuf is usually right. “Robert fancied you as much as you fancy him, but he was not going to wait for a lost cause. If you’d manned up and said the word, he would have left Nash for you. Everyone could see it.” 

“I didn’t see shite,” Eames blurts out, accent more pronounced. 

“That’s because you’re forever blowing bubbles, Eames,” Mal drawls, irritation laced in her tone.

“You knew about this too?” Eames turns on her. Accusing. Betrayed. 

“Unlike you, I don’t spend every group session fantasizing about Arthur naked,” Mal simply shrugs, “I listen when people speak, mon cheri.” 

“So let me get this straight,” Eames looks worlds more intimidating when he’s the only one standing and Arthur wonders if it is legal for anything under the age of twenty to be that large. “The origin of this whole trip is so that Arthur here can tell self-privileged, hoity-toity, silver-spoon-up-the-arse, Fischer, that he thinks he’s pretty?” 

“Why else would Arthur willingly trap himself in a mobile prison with you if not for self-privileged, hoity-toity, silver-spoon-up-the-ass, Fischer?” Ariadne chuckles. The look Eames gives Ariadne makes it clear that were she not as close as a little sister to him, he would have neatly removed her kneecaps right then and there. 

“Well I’m gravely sorry to disappoint you lot,” Eames drops himself back on the bed causing Mal to bounce comically, “but I refuse to be aid to a crew maliciously venturing out to destroy the love between two beautiful young men with big dreams.” 

“I wouldn’t call Nash beautiful,” Ariadne scoffs. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” its Eames turn to roll his eyes, “I was talking about Arthur and me. I won’t do it. Trip postponed indefinitely.”

“The only problem there is the fact that Arthur doesn’t love you,” Mal wraps her arms around Eames shoulders and offers him the fakest pout that the insincerity behind it will allow. “At all. And calling off the trip will only ruin your chances of him ever remotely even liking you. Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

They all look to the steel door when it slams shut, the empty beanbag chair that Arthur once occupied and the discarded map that now lies crumpled on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo supposed to be on holiday but here in the office. Doesn't mean I'm not keeping my promises!!! 
> 
> Heres another chapter to keep you tied over til the weekend.
> 
> And i WILL reply to all comments!!! Love them all!!! Loving you all!!! enjoy!!!
> 
> (Will be back to edit all of this as well as the previous chapter... so if you pick up any errors, yell and tell!!!)

Its two hours later and Arthur is still laying belly down on his meticulously made bed with his pillow over his head. 

Yusuf’s pitiless words are still loosening cogs in the only chronometer of hope he’d had left. Because Yusuf is his best friend and is supposed to feed him bullshit about how a higher power is going to part the red sea for him so that he can run across the softest ocean sand and fall into Robert’s arms, only letting the waves crash back when the two of them are safe on the other side with deep, dangerous waters between them and all their troubles. 

Arthur needs his mind to stop overthinking.

Mal’s nonchalant attitude towards Arthur’s obvious crises is twisting the already knotted ropes in his belly. Because Mal is naturally supposed to be doing everything in her power to make sure Arthur and Robert live happily ever after in a castle with a pet fire-breathing dragon. Because Mal cares about everything and fixes every broken relationship and dries every tear and mends every shattered heart. 

Arthur needs the stupid organ in his chest to stop aching. 

Ariadne just needs to find some way to speed up time and age faster because she is only turning fifteen years old next fall (the fact that she feels the need to remind everyone of this is a clear indication of how young she really is) and she couldn’t possibly begin to understand the complex simplicity of love. And the sacrifices one makes in the name of it. Ariadne needs to realize that this trip is just about the biggest and boldest step he’ll ever take in the direction of ensuring his happiness (happiness = the perfect husband and perfect job and perfect white picket fence in the perfect neighborhood with their perfect adopted little Taiwanese girl who throws frisbee with their perfect two huskies –with eyes as blue as Robert’s- on their perfect beach bungalow ocean-view back yard during the summer) and needs to be executed as specifically as he’s diagramed it out in his head down to the tiniest equation. Arthur has been drafting the blueprints ever since the weekend that Mr. Miles decided to have the group camp at his lake house during the summer he was seventeen. 

Arthur tries not to think about that night, because it hurts just a little too much to think about how close he had been. Because in the dark with everyone splashing in the river, nobody could see just how close Robert had been sitting on the deck beside Arthur. No one had noticed the way their shoulders brushed unnecessarily, raising hair and tightening swim trunks. And with their legs dangling off the edge soaking in the dark water, no one noticed their feet touch and ankles hook the same way their pinkies linked on the sundeck. 

“I got accepted to NYU,” Robert had mumbled. 

“Oh,” was Arthur’s reply because Robert Fischer already naturally turned him into an idiot, and now Robert Fischer was half naked and touching him. 

“It’s in New York.” 

“Oh,” Arthur repeated. And then added another, “Oh. Congratulations.” 

“Thanks,” Robert chuckled, looking every bit as lost as Arthur felt when Arthur finally braved a glance. Robert’s eyes were unfairly beautiful. “Nash wants us to share an apartment up there. Him and I.”

“Oh,” Arthur was back to that stupid word and quickly added, “that’s great.” 

“I’m not sure I want to go with him,” Robert’s confession left Arthur slightly breathless. 

“Why not,” Arthur managed; lips parting because Robert’s own were suddenly too close to his but still so far away. 

“There’s something far too important keeping me here,” Robert’s smile shook as the distance between them disappeared. And then was interrupted by a coat of lake water. 

“You two ladies are being worryingly anti-social,” Eames had laughed as he continued to splash them. And the commotion caused the rest of them to join in. Caused Robert to jump into the water and hang on the shoulders of his ‘boyfriend’ when beckoned. Forced Arthur to find Mr. Miles, feed him a lie and take a very long and awkwardly silent trip back home the next morning. After that night, Arthur stayed away from group all week. After that week, Robert was gone. 

Arthur did not blame himself; it was all Eames’ fault. Everything was always Eames’ fault. 

Arthur hated Eames.

Eames who has kissed his way through and broken the hearts of every boy in group except for Arthur, Nash and (thank heavens) Robert Fischer. Seriously, what was Yusuf thinking that one time after too many wine coolers in that too dark basement party? Eames who pretends that he really loves Arthur, insists that they belong together, confesses openly to everyone how quickly he would give away all his worldly possession for the chance to carry a naked and wanton Arthur to his bed and deflower him until Arthur forgets the necessity of remembering the importance of not forgetting to breathe. 

And for a moment, Arthur wonders what it would be like having sex with Eames. From the many tales of his sexual conquests that he liberally dishes out every week in group as if he’s doing everyone a favor with his explicitness, an entirely gullible person would be led to believe that it would be phenomenal. Vital even. 

But Arthur isn’t naïve. 

And every time Arthur pictures it, it’s rather real and painful and awkward. Its sweaty flesh and stretched appendages and impossible angles. Its sloppily placed lips and impatient teeth and penetrating blunt nails. It’s one body slapping against the other with no synchrony whatsoever. Its tears and gasps and Eames repeatedly asking Arthur if he is alright. Because Eames can’t seem to even go through an hour of group without asking Arthur if he is alright at least three times. With brows so high they threaten to touch his hairline. Genuine, careful concern swarming in those orbs of blue and green and something dangerously grey. Lips slightly parted as if waiting readily to offer any sort of suggestion to wipe Arthur’s frown away and alleviate his every qualm if Arthur would only bother answering Eames’ question. And those solid, tattooed arms that Arthur shrugs off his shoulders far too often, they would be firmly wrapped around Arthur’s bare torso. The other angled across his chest and hooked over his shoulder. Keeping Arthur from slipping away, from resisting the opening ache of it all until it morphs into something worlds more intense. And discomfort is forgotten, replaced by strenuous need. Need for what, Arthur doesn’t know, but he keeps asking Eames for it. Begging Eames for it as he pushes back just as desperately as Eames pushes forward until they’re forcing each other into a rhythm that harmonizes poetically with the animalistic beating of their hearts. 

The knock on the door nearly sets Arthur’s heart into arrhythmia. He’s able to remove his hand from inside the front of his jeans, wipe the layer of sweat off of his brow, and bury himself under his too-white duvet in one fluid motion that should be by any means impossible. And Arthur curses Eames’ very existence, because this is how Arthur always seems to end up whenever he makes the mistake of thinking about sex with Eames. A disgusting mess of yearning slut, panting, seconds away from losing all composure and staining yet another sheet. 

This sort of thing never happens with Robert. Sweet, gentle, courtly Robert Fischer. Robert Fischer induces the type of dreams that include shady meadows and glittery nights and soft kisses in front of a fire in a cabin on a snowy mountain. Not at all like with Eames who leaves him feeling mortified of everything he feels for Eames but the hate.

Arthur absolutely hates Eames. 

“Arthur,” his mother’s voice from the other side of the door expectedly pours a bucket of ice cold water over him, dampening every bit of fire that had been unfairly ignited by inappropriate thoughts of Eames. Arthur hears hushed banter followed by a screeching surge of chuckles that could only, uncharacteristically, belong to his mother. Arthur hasn’t heard his mother laugh like that since he was five and walked into the kitchen to find his father tickling his mother’s bum and nibbling on her neck in a way that left her beetroot red. “Arthur, your BFF is here.” 

Arthur rolls his eyes at the horrible, pubescent label and groans at the idea of Yusuf seeing him in such a state. He buries himself further under covers and thinks up a stupid excuse to get out of the obligation of being friendly to another human being. 

“I’m not feeling well, mom,” he has to shout louder due to cotton barricades and annoying laughter that is gradually getting louder, “tell him I’ll phone him later.”

“Shall I leave my digits with your mum, then?” 

And Arthur freezes. The primal concern, which would usually and should only, be due to the fact that someone had the audacity to open the door to his sanctuary without his written consent - that primal concern seems utterly trivial – dominated by the horror of Eames poking his head into his room over Arthur’s mother’s shoulder. 

“Arthur,” his mother cocks a brow, smile hideously broad. “Would you like your little friend to leave his number?” 

Arthur wants to laugh at the term little but finds himself seething at the word friend instead. 

“Or perhaps you can just give me his, Mother Arthur.” 

“No,” Arthur shouts, sitting up, clutching the duvet to his chest as if he isn’t actually fully dressed. At this, Eames’ smile twists into something completely dangerous. “No mom, it’s okay. You can go now.” 

“Does he always talk to you like that?” Eames puts one hand to his heart and the other on Arthur’s mother’s shoulder. And her skin doesn’t burn, even as she pats his hand and shakes her head and giggles her way out of the room. As if she’s known Eames for years.

Arthur narrows his eyes when the door closes and his worst nightmare becomes his reality. Arthur freezes when Eames finally looks at him, begins to panic when he starts covering the distance between them. 

“Sweet lord up in heaven, darling,” Eames stops advancing when Arthur holds up his hand in wordless warning, “were you just pleasuring yourself?”

“What are you doing here, Eames?”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Arthur’s throat closes up on the beginning of a squeak when Eames crawls onto the bed. He curses when Eames hovers above him. He hardens when Eames’ hand lands on his hip, “I’ll just sit here and make sure you’re doing it right.” 

“Get the fuck off of me,” Arthur doesn’t know why he hasn’t introduced his knee to Eames’ exposed groin just yet. Or done something more manly like calling his mother. 

“Not until I get exactly what I want,” Eames licks his bottom lip and Arthur is suddenly unable to look at anything else. 

“I’m going to count to three, Eames,” Arthur manages. And it’s pathetic and small but Arthur doesn’t care because his ears are ringing and body shaking and Eames is raising his hand. Holding his empty palm up to Arthur’s face, so close that the tips of his fingers threaten to touch Arthur’s lips. 

“Give it to me, Arthur,” Eames purrs and it’s low and dark and Arthur is sure he’ll find something sort of damp in his pants when he looks later. 

“One,” Arthur begins his count but does nothing more than lay there when Eames crawls higher. 

“Come on, darling.”

“Two.” 

“The money for the trip,” Eames finally grins. “You’re the only one that has not chipped in for gas yet. Gotta fill her up if we want to leave bright and early tomorrow. Give me the money.” 

“What?” Arthur gasps out because Eames is already off the bed and across the room, rummaging through his drawer as if it’s a daily thing. 

“Unless,” Eames looks at Arthur over his shoulder holding up a pair of Arthur’s maroon briefs, “you would like to pay me other ways.” 

And Arthur snaps out of his state of shock and oblivion and something else entirely too hot. Grabs his underwear from Eames. Grabs the envelope he had set aside labeled GAS. Shoves it at a laughing Eames. And pushes the other boy out of his room. 

“Are you sure you don’t need help with that?” Eames nods his head down to the bulge in Arthur’s pants, seconds before the door is slammed in his face. 

Arthur spends the rest of the day in his room trying not to think about the heat of Eames body. His scratchy voice. His full pink lips. Arthur tries not to think of what made Eames change his mind about the trip when he almost forgets why he wanted to go on it in the first place. That night, Arthur stains his maroon underwear with a coat of fuck-you-eames and fuck-the-universe.


	4. Chapter 4

The black van has always annoyed Arthur. Every time he walks into the community center, it’s always double parked, tattooed hideously like its owner. It’s an eye-sore. The vinyl stickers are a mix of sad angels and bubble blowing dragons and the most respectable of the thirteen bumper stickers reads: _Honk If You Like My Rear_.

 

Arthur hated it even before Eames somehow managed to arrive earlier to group than him. All the time. Arthur has always been punctual at punctuality and yet no matter how much he tries to keep his title, the black van and Eames’ crooked grin always seem to upstage him.  

 

But Arthur has never hated it as much as he does right now. Because the stereo is blaring something that might be Savage Garden and Ariadne’s head is poked out one of the tinted windows as she yells something at Eames. Eames who is standing on the roof.

 

Something entirely evil inside of Arthur hopes that Eames breaks a leg when he lands his animated leap to the ground.

 

“Just doing some routine maintenance,” Eames grins and goes straight for Arthur’s bag. Arthur is about to tell Eames to handle it with care because it’s worth more than Eames’ vehicle and the vehicle’s owner’s nuts, but he’s suddenly too preoccupied keeping Eames’ face at bay. Arthur’s sure Eames has kissed his palm more often than Arthur has kissed his own mom’s cheek. And Arthur’s beginning to think that Eames doesn’t mind this at all because all he does is chuckle as he tosses Arthur’s bag carelessly into the back with the rest of the luggage.  

 

Arthur vaguely remembers Eames saying something about how he’d found it left for dead in a junkyard before he started ‘pimping it out’ from the tender age of fifteen. From the looks of the body, he seriously hopes Eames has done a better job at ‘pimping out’ its interior. 

 

“You’re three hours and seventeen minutes late,” Arthur stands in front of Eames, halting the tattooed boy from his tire inspection that really just consists of the tip of his paint stained boot knocking against tube. Did Eames always wear boots?

 

“Nonsense, love. You said to pick you up at 7:43.”

“Who the hell asks to be picked up at 7:4-” Arthur rolls his eyes and pulls out the little yellow card from his back pocket. It’s perfectly bulleted and numbered with times and tips and Arthur has made sure they all have one. Arthur himself has duplicates and so he remains completely impassive when Eames grabs the card away from in front of his face and proceeds to rip it up in front of Arthur’s in return.

 

“You know I adore you,” Eames lets the tattered pieces slip through his fingers and pepper to the ground. “But please do try to be a little less you for the duration of our vacation.”

 

“And you were supposed to pick me up first,” Arthur frowns as Eames slides the heavy door open to Mal painting her nails, Ariadne singing badly along to music as she taps away viciously on her PSP and Yusuf confusing sitting behind the steering wheel as shotgun.

 

“Last month you specifically informed the group that I would lose both my testicles were you and I to ever find ourselves alone with no witnesses,” Eames offers Arthur his hand which Arthur just glares at. The only assistance Arthur needs getting into the van is divine motivation.  “Now, they may not be symmetrical, but they’re always there for me and I treasure them.”

 

Arthur doesn’t permit himself a second longer to doubt his every decision leading up to this point before he’s hopping into the vehicle. Mainly because his next-door neighbor is peeping over the hedges and the Chihuahua across the road won’t stop yapping. Then Arthur flinches when the door bangs closed behind him and everything inside seems to shake.

 

“First time you’re inside Clarissa, Arthur?” Mal asks casually, applying what looks like her second coat of nail polish.

 

“I think it’s his first time inside a female anything,” Ariadne offers, only stopping her game to punch Arthur in the thigh when he knocks her panda bear hat off of her head. He pays little attention to the debate that follows about whether or not being carried by his mother for nine months counts. No, Arthur is too busy focusing on the belly of the beast that he’d never admit to being curious about before now.

 

And Arthur will never admit to finding the place sort of… nice.

 

It’s like a tiny dark lounge on wheels, comfy seats more facing each other than lining the quadrilateral vicinity. In fact, if Arthur wasn’t already preparing himself for his inevitable carsickness, he could allow himself to believe that it was a real room. With compact overhead compartments and two sleek built in tables.

 

It is familiarly disorderly without being claustrophobic, cluttered with tiny antique-looking mobile pedestals; board games Arthur had forgotten existed and other small things Arthur guesses Eames picked up at pawn shops. More out of boredom than necessity.

 

“What the fuck?” Arthur curses as the van jerks to life and he’s thrown into Mal’s lap. He’s ready to kill Eames for the red stain on his favorite hoodie as he tries to wipe it off and right himself at the same time. Especially since Eames’ laughter floats in the vehicle above the annoyingly loud music and Mal’s French curses. But when Arthur turns, it’s to find Yusuf pulling off, just barely missing a trashcan as he inconsistently pushes his foot down on the gas. “Yusuf, what the hell are you doing?”

 

“Driving,” Yusuf yells back as if someone is actually holding a gun to his head. The car swerves from left to right and Arthur forces his legs to take him to the only other vacant seat in the van.

 

“Barely,” Ariadne giggles, looking akin to an adrenaline junky being terribly unimpressed by a frustratingly slow rollercoaster ride.

 

“But you can’t drive,” Arthur reminds his friend unnecessarily as he searches about himself for a seatbelt. Or an ejection button.

 

“You’re never too drunk to learn,” Eames has his hand on Yusuf’s head rest as he twists around to give Arthur his most genuine grin.  Then Arthur’s blood runs cold when Eames raises an open bottle in an in vain toast. “Ariadne, do us a favor and give Arthur an alcopop so he might let some wind up his skirt.” 

 

“Stop the car,” Arthur hears himself say before realizing he’s already halfway to the front of the vehicle. Because he only just realizes that Mal is drinking too And Ariadne is chugging one down like a pirate as she searches through the cooler and Yusuf is asking for a top up with his eyes half off the road. And this is certainly not how this trip was supposed to go.

 

“Relax, Darling,” Eames chuckles, tossing his bottle carelessly into the cup holder before grabbing Arthur’s wrists. And Arthur isn’t sure what he intends on doing if he actually manages to grab hold of the steering wheel, but it all seems logical at the time. “Arthur, behave.”

 

Arthur surges forward once again despite Eames’ hands keeping him at bay, despite their elbows knocking the driver, despite Mal and Ariadne yelling for _him_ to calm down. And were it not for Eames holding him still, Arthur would have possibly hit his head on the windscreen with how quickly Yusuf slams his foot on breaks. And with the engine off, the music stops, and with it, everybody’s yelling. And all that’s left is the echoing of rubber screeching against tar and everyone’s labored breathing.

 

“Arthur, calm down,” Eames actually looks genuinely concerned and Arthur is certain it has something to do with the fact that his face just might look as horrifically red as it feels. “It’s only Ginger Ale. It was a joke, love.”

 

Arthur hasn’t quite let the words settle before Ariadne is already laughing. And Mal soon joins even as she tells Yusuf he owes her new nail polish. And Arthur realizes he is shaking because Eames hands are still around his wrists and Arthur can see the tattooed slabs of muscle shake with him.

 

“You said that would be funny,” Yusuf shakes his head as he gets out of the driver’s seat seemingly slightly shaken.

 

“Are you alight, Arthur?” the blatant concern in Eames’ eyes becomes sharper and Arthur can honestly feel a sting in his own. Because it’s almost as if Eames can see right through him. Like Eames can see Arthur reliving the moment that he tries so desperately to pretend never happened at all. And Arthur shakes Eames hands off of him because Eames long fingers have started to massage the delicate skin below his palms. 

 

“I hate you,” Arthur finally finds his voice. Delights in the way Eames looks utterly broken by the harshness of his whispered words. Because they were reserved for Eames alone even though everyone else was clearly in on the joke. And Eames looks as though he’s about to say something but instead jumps by the sound of Yusuf rapping angrily against his window. Arthur uses that split second of interruption to escape Eames entirely. To bury himself in his previous seat, block out the girls bubbly banter about Arthur’s reaction and knock away the proffered bottle of Ginger Ale, resulting in the laughter becoming louder. But even as Arthur looks anywhere but at Eames, Arthur can feel Eames’ eyes on him as the larger boy slides across and takes the driver’s seat. Even when Eames pulls onto the road uncharacteristically gently, Arthur can feel Eames’ eyes on him in the rearview mirror.

 

It hasn’t even been five minutes and Arthur is already convinced that this is the biggest mistake of his life.

 

Arthur hopes Robert is worth every second of it.

   

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!! Thanks a mil for hanging in there, I know there was a long wait. But please try enjoy.
> 
> Also, I'm using a hell of a lotta artistic license when it comes to this initial trip, so please, do not try to take my directions to get to New York... chances are you will end up in Mombasa >_

No more than seventeen hours.

 

In no more than seventeen hours, Arthur will be in New York. In New York with Robert Fischer. In New York with Robert Fischer making beautiful, poetic love proclamations and sharing utterly sweet kisses with the boy of his dreams. Arthur has set his mental clock, a timer so efficient that even in his half asleep state he knows exactly how long they’ve been travelling, where about they are and how many miles they still have yet to go.

 

This is why when Arthur opens his eyes he’s completely perplexed as to why the van is surrounded by nothing but hot, dry, white sand.

 

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Mal is the first to see him when he hops out of the empty, lifeless van. She’s traded her blouse for a simple blue bikini top and Arthur prays that whatever mat she is sunbathing on atop Eames’ van is thick enough to repel the heat that is undoubtedly beating down hard on the roof of the vehicle. Arthur finds himself stripping out of his hoodie before he’s awake enough to make perfect sense of the situation.

 

“What’s going on?” he asks no one in particular yet still feels annoyed when it’s Ariadne who answers.

 

“Go ask Lewis and Clark over there,” she points towards a landscape void of human life, because she isn’t paying much attention to Arthur at all. Ariadne is holding her cellphone up to the sky, only looking down to make sure she doesn’t step on Mal as she paces the roof and Arthur wonders in contempt if being on that roof is going to be a trend for the duration of the trip.

 

But instead of dwelling on it, Arthur decides to circle the car in search of Eames. Because something is clearly wrong and if anything goes wrong there’s obviously no one else to blame for it but Eames. Arthur’s schedule says absolutely nothing about sunbathing at 10:52 and Arthur’s watch is never wrong.

 

Sand crunches under his shoes when he spots them and wastes no time marching across the deserted road. Eames and Yusuf’s animated discussion becomes louder as he draws nearer even though it seems as though they’re arguing more at the map in Eames’ hands than at each other.   It seems as though the absolute nothingness that Eames points towards down one side of the long stretch of road is way more fascinating than the nothingness Yusuf points at down the other side.

 

Arthur knows that his sudden abrupt rise in temperature has very little to do with the sweltering sun that has already begun to redden Eames’ bare shoulders.

 

When Arthur is finally right beside them it takes a moment for the pair to realize that they have company. Arthur still says nothing. He instead fixes his most unyielding face, barely refraining from putting his hands on his hips because his mother always looks way less intimidating when she does it to him. So instead, Arthur watches as Eames tries on a smile and Yusuf rubs the back of his neck looking severely constipated, and waits for the two of them to explain themselves. Even though it really doesn’t take any sort of genius to figure it out. 

 

“I’m afraid we might have zigged when we should have zagged, dear” Eames looks pained, sounds amused and chuckles unforgivingly all at once. And Arthur knows only Eames can pull off a triplicate like that. “You see, what happened was-”

 

Arthur raises a finger at Eames and closes his eyes, shocked by how it seems to actually mute Eames as he takes in a deep breath. When Arthur opens his eyes again, it’s to glare at Yusuf.

 

“We’re lost,” Yusuf says simply. And somehow Arthur wishes he’d given Eames the chance to give an hour long elaborate explanation of their situation because knowing it and hearing it are two completely different things.

 

“Where are we?” Arthur grabs the map.

 

“I don’t think you quite understand the meaning of the word _lost_.”

 

“Well check your GP-” and Arthur’s lips go thin as he recalls Ariadne on the roof of the van. “Let me guess-”

 

“No signal,” Eames and Yusuf say in unison. Both unnecessarily and infuriating.

 

Arthur turns his back to the two of them, trying his utmost not to think about all types of bodily harm he would like to inflict on the duo. It would do none of them any good. Not to mention, burying bodies in the desert is so _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. So he buries himself in the map instead and tries to do what he does best, find solutions to problems. But as he scans through the map, Arthur’s head pounds harder as he’s once again reminded of how Eames is a problem that not even William James Sidis would have been able to solve.

 

“This is a map of Portugal,” Arthur whispers. And then chuckles. And then bursts out laughing. When next he yells it’s hot and red and directly in Eames’ face. “This is a fucking map of fucking Portugal. What the hell happened to the map I gave you?”

 

“Calm down, Arthur,” Eames is actually backing away and Yusuf is trying to get between them, but even that doesn’t discourage Arthur’s advance. “I might’ve misplaced yours so I got another at our last stop. But to the cashiers defense I did just ask for a map, didn’t specify of exactly where.”

 

“Of course,” Arthur shoves the map over Yusuf’s shoulder into Eames’. “Of course it’s explicable because when traveling across the United Stated of America it’s easy to overlook specificities such as having a fucking map of The United States of America!” 

 

“Specificities?”

 

“Don’t you dare start with me Eames,” Arthur ignores Yusuf who is now holding him back from behind. “It’s because of your stupidity that we’re lost.”

 

“We’re not lost, Arthur,” Eames reasons, “we’re just misplaced.”

 

“Don’t talk to me,” Arthur gives up altogether and storms back to the van, because there has to be a solution somewhere in his bag. In the van. Anywhere but in front of Eames.   

 

“Arthur,” Eames voice is right beside him as he all but tears through his bag, not quite sure what he’s looking for. The commotion arouses interest from the girls but both Arthur and Eames ignore their inquisitiveness. “Arthur, we aren’t lost. All roads lead to somewhere. My suggestion is we just follow one and for God’s sake enjoy the hell out of the ride.”

 

 

 And then Arthur stops as realization hits him like a ton of bricks. “Enjoy the ride?”

 

“Why not?” Eames’ smile leaks a cold chill down Arthur’s spine and the hand squeezing Arthur’s shoulder is beseeching, pleading to be broken in several different places. “You’re the only one not making the best of this-”

 

“You planned this, didn’t you,” Arthur seethes, staring into Eames’ eyes, holding his gaze sharply. He vaguely notices Yusuf helping Ariadne off the van and wonders exactly when Mal got close enough to wrap a hand around Eames’ other wrist. Almost as if to back him away. Prepared for the predictable outburst. “You did this on purpose because you’ll stop at nothing to sabotage my chances with Robert.”

 

“I did no such thing,” Eames’ halfhearted attempt to defend himself drips with disingenuousness, further angering Arthur.

 

“When are you just going to give it up,” Arthur shakes his head, a bitter puff of laughter escaping his dry mouth. “Don’t you get? You and I are never going to be together. The mere thought of it is absurd beyond-” Arthur loses his words and decides to pace instead.

 

“I think the only absurdity in this entire situation is you thinking that Fischer and you stand a chance.”

 

And it’s whispered but Arthur hears it. And it hits like a brick to the chest. And Ariadne’s ‘ouch’ is just as loud, equally as effective as Eames’ brutal words. And it drowns out Mal’s attempts at cooling the unforgiving heat that reintroduces itself in a brand new and even more stabbing way.

 

“What did you say?” Arthur’s not quite sure why he wants to hear it again.

 

“Face it, Arthur,” Eames lips quirk up on one side, “if he truly cared about you even remotely as much as I do, he would never have left in the first place.”

 

“You’re right,” Arthur finally says despite the stinging in the back of his eyes. Despite Yusuf trying to reassure him that nothing Eames is saying is true. That the two are saying things they’ll regret. Because it’s all being said out of anger. The smile on Eames’ face makes Arthur know that Eames will regret none of it. He repeats, “You’re right. All roads lead to somewhere. And as soon as we get _there_ I’ll find my own way home.”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

“Fine,” Eames says and they part ways instantly as if formerly agreeing to do just that at that exact moment.

 

“Fine,” Arthur agrees as he sulks his way back into the van with a pout that matches his mood.

 

“There’s only one problem with that,” Yusuf says slowly. Worryingly carefully. “We’re out of gas.” 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“The sign said six miles to the next gas station,” Eames says. “I honestly thought we’d make it.”

 

“That’s the problem, Eames,” Arthur walks four steps ahead of Eames. “You ‘thinking’ is the problem. Why don’t you spare us all more devastation by leaving the thinking to those of us who possess the capacity of actually using our brains.”

 

Arthur only glances back because the single thing scarier than the thought of Eames thinking is those rare moments he goes stark silent. No chuckles. No retorts.

 

Eames is still keeping a respectable distance between them as per Arthur’s request. In fact, the only reason Arthur even suggested he go along with Eames instead of Yusuf is due to the fact that they’re all in this situation to begin with due to Yusuf’s and Eames’ joint discretion thus far. Arthur wonders if dumbing down is a side effect one may suffer from being exposed to Eames for too long without taking some serious precautions. There is simply no other explanation for his usually over intelligent best friend fumbling so easily with mediocre tasks such as staying on route and monitoring gas.

 

After not much debate, Yusuf agreed to stay with the girls while Arthur and Eames venture off in search of the alleged gas station that, with each step further, Arthur is not entirely convinced even exists.

 

“Do you know what I think?” Eames finally breaks the silence.

 

“I thought I told you to spare us-”

 

“I think you’re afraid.” Eames interjects, giving Arthur less time to think than even speak.  “You’re afraid of having something real so instead you’re chasing preposterous fairytales. You’re afraid of falling for someone you won’t ever have to fight for because you’re incapable of allowing yourself to be happy. You don’t know how to be happy.”

 

“Oh spare me the Dr. Phil bullshit,” Arthur snaps. Because he is in no way going to take psychological advice from a sweaty, tattooed oaf who thinks wrapping his vest around his head like a turban will assist in keeping the growing heat at bay. “You know nothing about me.”

 

Arthur really wishes that Eames would put his clothes back on. And not just because Eames’ pants are devastatingly low and the thin strip of gray briefs is kidnapping every slither of moisture that trails down his unnecessarily hard body. Not even because Eames is so comfortable in his own skin while Arthur tries desperately to ignore the irritating sensation of cotton plastered to his back and under his arms. Because no matter how tempting Eames’ earlier suggestion for Arthur to do the same, he cannot imagine getting even remotely naked around anyone, let alone a Mack truck who makes him feel like a pubescent, pale fuck. Arthur wishes Eames would dress up because the more Eames makes Arthur want to hit him, the more Arthur pictures his hands on Eames. The more Arthur wants to put his hands on Eames. Around Eames’ neck, down Eames’ chest, around his solid waist. The sun must really be getting to him because there is no way Arthur should be feeling so attracted to someone who’s bent on destroying his chances of being with the boy he loves. Arthur’s head is truly a mess.

 

“I know I have yet to see you smile,” Eames steps in front of Arthur, making Arthur realize for the first time that he’s stopped walking. “You’ve been snapping at everyone since leaving home. When are you ever going to allow yourself to be happy? Arthur, you’re on a lovely trip with your friends and you’ve color coded every stop.”

 

“Friends?” Arthur scoffs, eyebrows rising to his hairline. “You think I would ever consider you a friend? Eames, you are nothing to me.”

 

“You don’t mean that, love,” Eames whispers, expression uncharacteristically flat.

 

“Nothing, Eames,” Arthur affirms. And even as the words leave his lips, Arthur begins to wonder if he’s trying to convince Eames of this, or himself. “And you never will be.”

 

Then Arthur suddenly feels paralyzed standing in front of Eames. Because Arthur has seen countless emotions play across the other boy’s face, multiple at times even. But never before has he seen anything as shockingly wrecked as the site of held back tears sketching mock existence against the shade of crimson that spreads beneath truly sad eyes. For the first time, Arthur truly sees emotion, emotion he provoked, emotion he thought himself incapable of causing another person. Another boy. A boy who truly feels for him. A boy who loves him.

 

For the first time, Arthur’s heart skips a different beat altogether. And all Arthur wants to do is eliminate the sadness. Take back every word. Allow himself to be loved the way every vibration radiating from Eames’ existence screams out how he wants Arthur to let him be the one to do it.

 

And then the moment is over and Eames’ face goes hard. Hard and dangerous. Dangerous and determined as he takes a step forward crowding Arthur’s space in a menacing sort of way that makes Arthur feel as though Eames is done playing games. And will open Arthur’s eyes one way or another if Arthur insists on continuing to remain visionless. All Arthur can do is watch as the larger boy’s nostril flare and lips part as they move closer to his own. He feels dizzy as Eames’ hand clasps around the back of his neck, pulling him closer still until they’re breathing the same air.

 

And then Arthur realizes that it isn’t Eames that’s growling at all as the growl turns into more of a roar. And Arthur staggers away from Eames to face the unmistakable roar of a car’s engine. The first vehicle Arthur’s seen since making the mistake of dozing off hours ago.

 

Arthur immediately feels the first touch of hope surface, hope that outshines a moment of something he is too afraid to even try to understand. As the van – clearly larger than Eames’ even from far - approaches, with it comes hope for proper directions, maybe a kinder lift to the gas station. Arthur will settle for just about anything other than the scenario that slowly unfolds in front of him.

 

“Arthur!” Eames shouts and Arthur stops flagging down the vehicle. Because although the car is heading towards them, it isn’t slowing down. And as it picks up speed at a frightening level, so does Arthur’s heartbeat. “Arthur, look out!”

 

The last thing Arthur remembers after being tackled out of harm’s way in the nick of time, is tumbling down a steep sandy hill.

 

Excruciating pain.

 

Eames voice asking him if he is okay. 

*****

The truth is, Arthur most certainly is not alright.

 

The tumble down wasn’t far but horribly steep. The desert rocks were sharp and unkind and Arthur could have done without the large slab of boy rolling over him, the sand in his eyes and the dirt in his mouth. But what has Arthur mostly ‘not alright’ is the way his heart refuses to stop hammering against his chest.

 

“Breathe, Arthur,” Eames encourages him as he coughs through the cloud of dust the two created during their roll. Eames is kneeling over him, hitting his back and the only thing more disconcerting than the closeness is the bloody cut on Eames eyebrow. “It’s alright. You’re alright. They’re gone.”

 

But the only thing Eames’ words do is remind Arthur of how absolutely nothing is alright and how he should be panicking. Arthur tries to scramble to his feet, to get away from Eames, to get out of the desert, to run home. They all seem like great ideas in that exact moment, but when Arthur tries to use his legs, the sharp pain on the side of his knee causes him to fall right back down.

 

Arthur curses, clutches his knee and regrets it a second later when the contact simply makes it worse.

 

“Let me have a look,” Eames is crawling back in front of him, holding Arthur’s leg so gently that he barely feels the contact.

 

“What was that about?” Arthur wheezes out, hitting his own chest and rubbing his eyes.

 

“Probably just some desert bandits,” Eames says as if it’s the most common occurrence in the world.

 

“Desert bandits?” Arthur can’t believe he’s laughing. Even though it’s dry and empty and hurts his throat. “You’re shitting me right? Those don’t actually exist, this isn’t the eighteen hundreds.”

 

“The seas still have pirates,” Eames shrugs, “don’t be so close-minded. Bandits exist.”

 

“They do?” Arthur asks absently, suddenly distracted. In any other instant it would’ve been because of the rip in his jeans that Eames skated his thumb over, but that is nothing compared to the way the larger boy is suddenly rolling his pant leg up. When the fabric is as far as it can fold just above his knee, Arthur still finds himself staring at Eames’ face until it twists into something that reflects the renewed burst of pain in his knee.

 

“Don’t look so frightened,” Eames smiles up at Arthur and Arthur physically whimpers. Because Eames’ thumbs are applying pressure to the sides of the small cut. The whimper has nothing to do with the fact that Eames looks unfairly handsome covered in dirt. “They’re harmless. If they wanted to hurt us they would’ve.”

 

“You’re hurt,” Arthur whispers, not quite knowing when exactly his fingers moved to Eames’ eyebrow. Tracing the brow while avoiding the actual cut. And Eames seems to stop breathing, crouching there dangerously still as they hold each other’s gaze.

 

Then Eames shakes his head and gets to his feet, clears his throat and waves casually at Arthur’s knee.

 

“It’s just a bit of glass in it,” Eames walks the short distance to retrieve his vest that had fallen off his head at some point. When he returns it’s to wrap the garment around Arthur’s knee. It’s done quickly and with less care than Arthur has ever seen Eames put into anything he’s ever seen Eames do. “I’ve got a first aid kit in the van that will fix you up nice and quick. But firstly, we need that gas. You wait here. I’ll run it.”

 

“You’re leaving me here?” Arthur can’t believe he sounds that whiney.

 

“You’re just gonna slow me down,” says Eames, looking into the distance as if calculating how long it will take for him to return. And then Eames reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a Swiss Army Knife, handing it to Arthur who takes it blindly. “Certain you won’t need it, but just in case. I’ll be back in a jiffy, mate.”

 

Then with new found energy he must’ve been reserving, Eames is heading for the road. And Arthur is left to look after him with a lot more pain than just the glass in his wound.

 

“Mate?” Arthur asks.

 

But Eames is already too far away to reassure Arthur that he had heard him wrong.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur had spent his first session at group staring at the ground in front of him. Because the group leader kept singling out the new comers in a somewhat obvious yet subtle way.

 

“Admitting to yourself is the first and most vital step in your journey into self-acceptance and true inner peace,” he had said encouragingly, completely unable to mask the pride in his distinguished tone. “And you should be greatly proud of yourselves. You have nothing – nothing to be afraid of.”

 

Arthur had kept his eyes on the ground because the tiny girl in the striped hoodie spoke openly about a girl she was crazy about. And Arthur was ashamed because he knew he would never be as brave as she was to speak so openly. And she wasn’t even fourteen years old.

 

Arthur had kept his head down because, even while the pretty French girl posed questions and offered advice. Even as mouse-boy did the same. Even as the curly headed British guy spoke about how his grades had gone back up since joining group and the blue-eyed beauty had concurred. Even as the newbies nervously stuttered out their names and preferences, Arthur had kept his eyes on his shoes, because every time he dared to look up, the large boy with all the tattoos was staring at him. Smiling at him. Studying him.

 

Arthur hadn’t stuck around for long after that first session, even though everybody else was tucking into cookies and juice while engaging in idle chatter. He had left rather quickly because he still felt as though he’d done something wrong just by showing up there. He still felt as though his mother would know something was amiss if he didn’t return home with some library books since that’s exactly where he’d told her his new study group held their meetings. And so Arthur hurried to the only one on his way home and blindly scanned the shelves for a subject with a long name that would intimidate his mother out of asking him too many questions when he whipped it out and pretended to read at the kitchen table.

 

But even though Arthur hadn’t stayed long, he’d stayed long enough to know that the boy with the tattoos - Eames, was it? – was one boy to be avoided.

 

That is why when Arthur took a quick, unpredictable step back into the aisle he’d spent the better part of five minutes in, his suspicion that he was being followed was no longer a suspicion at all.

 

“Are you following me?” Arthur asked _Eames_.  

 

“Shhh,” he’d sounded out with one finger clumsily placed over Arthur’s lips - more his nose – and his eyes still focused on the opened book in his other hand.

 

Arthur had hit the hand away and frowned.

 

“No offence,” Arthur continued, “but you don’t really strike me as the library type.”

 

“I am deeply offended, darling,” the British accent, more prominent now than in group, was firm but hushed. “I’ll have you know that I am doing some extensive and critical research on –”

 

They both raised their brows at the title on the book in Eames’ hand when he closed it. Arthur pursed his lips while Eames’ twisted into something of an amused smirk.

 

Eames continued, “well I do believe it is highly important to know all about natural-,” Eames cleared his throat, “-rejuvenation….of your…vagina.”

 

“I’m gonna go now,” Arthur rolled his eyes while backing away.

 

“No, don’t go,” Eames said, fingers curling around Arthur’s wrist and once again Arthur adored his own capacity to fake calm and unaffectedness in situations that really set his pulse racing. “You barely said two words in group. I’m pretty sure all I heard was ‘Arthur’ and ‘gay’.”

 

“Because that’s pretty much all I said,” Arthur glared down at Eames’ hand, a shocking tanned contrast to his own pale skin.

 

“I know, sweetheart,” Eames tossed his book aside, leaned his elbow on the shelf beside them and rested his head in his palm. It could have passed off as glittery eyed, a dreamy state even were it not for the entirely too devilish grin that made it impossible for Arthur not to shift from foot to foot. “I honestly don’t know what it is about you. But there is something that draws me to you. Something that makes me want to get to know you.”

 

And then it hit Arthur all too quickly. And any butterflies he’d been trying to ignore, dissolved altogether, replaced by a fresh coat of something angry. And temporary flattery fell fast and felt false and all Arthur could do was smile bitterly into blue- no, green – no, blue and green and grey eyes.

 

“You know,” Arthur began, “I already know a lot about you.”

 

“Is that so?” Eames looked amused, misinterpreting Arthur’s smirk entirely.

 

“Yes,” Arthur didn’t back away, even as Eames moved closer, “and I know exactly what ‘it is’ about me that you just can’t stay away from. And even though I meet your criteria; new, shy, unaware of your playboy reputation leaving me naïve enough to drop my pants for you just because you pretend you really care and tell me I’m pretty, unfortunately for you there is just one thing about me that makes me fall short…. I’m not an idiot.”

 

“So they’ve briefed you on me already then?”

 

“Thank God for that,” Arthur pulled away from Eames, not entirely surprised when Eames followed him, albeit less enthusiastically. “I might have actually fallen for it.”

 

“What if I told you I aint that bloke anymore,” Eames said.

 

“I’d say that’s a brilliant plan B.”

 

“What if I promised to be painfully honest with you and told you that that ‘something about you’ is unadulterated physical attraction because you have no right to be so sinfully gorgeous without even trying to and I’m dying to see if your inside is as beautiful as the out.”

 

Arthur took his steps more carefully and his breaths more deeply as he willed himself to wear his armor more securely than he ever imagined he would need to.

 

“I’d say if at first you don’t succeed-”

 

“Just listen to me,” Arthur all but bumped into a strong chest. For such a big guy Eames sure was agile. “If it’s so easy for you to believe what everyone else says about me at least give me the benefit of the doubt and believe me when I say this; I may have been a certain way in the past but people change. I’ve changed. I’m not lying to you. I will never lie to you, darling.”

 

“Stop calling me darling,” Arthur lowered his voice and tried to act casual when a librarian joined their aisle looking more than disapproving.

 

“I’m afraid I’m unable to call you anything other than what you are,” Eames had smiled the type of smile that would’ve made Arthur go weak in the knees if he wasn’t still convinced that the handful of boys he didn’t know at all were absolutely right about the gorgeous boy he didn’t know at all because there could be no other plausible way that someone like Eames could ever genuinely be interested in him if not simply for sport. “You, Arthur, are incredibly lovely.”

 

“Arthur,” Eames voice rouses Arthur from his slumber and the gentle slaps to his cheek are unkind than the sun undoubtedly reddening them. “You alive, mate?”

 

“Mate?” Arthur takes the painkillers and proffered bottle of water, grateful that it’s cold in his palm. In his half asleep state he pops two pills without further instruction from Eames.

 

“Yeah, we’re alright,” Eames wears an empty smile even as he helps Arthur to his feet.

 

“Where’s the gas?” Arthur asks dumbly because Eames is suddenly crouching down in front of him.

 

“He’s offered to carry it,” Eames backs up until his butt is against Arthur’s crotch, confusing Arthur even more than the man standing on the side of the road carrying a heavy looking bottle of petrol and an equally heavy looking backpack over his shoulders. His jeans are faded, jacket out of place in such heat and his cap is low, shading his eyes entirely. Making Arthur unsure of whether or not he’s looking at them at all.

 

“Who the fuck is that?” Arthur squints against the sun, more baffled by the stranger than the way Eames is coaxing him to climb his back. He winces when his knee folds too quickly, gripping Eames’ hips with his thighs and instinctively wrapping his arms around broad shoulders. Bare, warm, strong shoulders.

 

“I think he’s name is Patrick.”

 

“It’s Cobb,” the stranger corrects flaccidly and Arthur doesn’t appreciate how the stranger is eavesdropping.

 

When next Arthur speaks it’s a sharp whisper. “Why is he here?”

 

“Met him at the gas station,” Eames is ambling up the hill as if he’s not carrying a fully grown boy on his back, “offered him a ride, didn’t I.”

 

“Eames,” Arthur looks over his shoulder at ‘Cobb’ who quietly proceeded to follow them a safe distance behind them as Eames had been doing earlier. “Eames, how on earth did you pick up a hitchhiker without a car?”

 

“He’s a lovely bloke, Arthur,” Eames laughs. “Just trust me.”

 

“Lovely?” Arthur scoffs, not having the slightest idea how a single word can hurt so much


	8. Chapter 8

“This just keeps getting fucking better and better,” Arthur pushes Eames away, paying no attention to the pain in his knee. Not when everything is gone. The cooler has been raided, suitcases emptied and if Yusuf is joking about how all the money has been taken too, then his friend has a really fucked up sense of humor. “Everything is gone?”

 

“I couldn’t do anything,” Yusuf is crouched down with his face in his hands while Arthur searches frantically for everything and nothing in particular. Eames is at Mal’s and Ariadne’s side, whispering something to them both, stroking Ari’s hair. His calmness only serves to fuel Arthur on even more. “There was four of them, Arthur. What the fuck would you have done?”

 

“Don’t worry,” Eames smiles at Yusuf reassuringly. “It could’ve been worse.”

 

“Really? Really Eames?” Arthur shakes his head, “How the fuck could this get any worse.”

 

And Arthur doesn’t see it coming, too injured to scramble out of Eames’ way quickly enough. And Eames is in his face, body stiff and face red, smile completely vanished. And like this, Eames suddenly has height on Arthur, and Arthur shrinks under the attention.

 

“For fucks sake, Arthur,” Eames voice roars, vein pumping at his temple, looking like he is fully capable of killing a man with his bare hands. Then Eames face softens ever so slightly as he looks over his shoulder, pointing in Mal’s and Ariadne’s direction. And Arthur sees the tears in Ari’s eyes as she clings to Mal who is holding her sisterly. Eames points to Yusuf who hasn’t risen from his crouching position, looking up at Eames through parted fingers. “It could have been worse.”

 

And Arthur is hit with a sudden burst of guilt, because Eames is right. It could’ve been a lot worse.

 

“Let‘s just get the fuck out of here before they decide to come back,” Eames is mumbling as he circles the van.

  
  
“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers after Eames, and then again at the rest of them, “I’m sorry.”

 

*****

“I don’t like him,” Arthur repeats.

 

“Eames seems to,” Yusuf shrugs, popping two fries into his mouth. And Arthur gets a startling case of déjà vu because it feels exactly like they’re at the same diner that this whole idea started in. Only absolutely nothing is going according to plan. Because if it was, they wouldn’t be here at all. They wouldn’t have been ransacked. Mal and Ariadne wouldn’t be digging into a terribly greasy looking burger. And Eames wouldn’t be across the diner on the phone beside a stranger that refused to leave his side.

 

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Ariadne asks when Eames finely hangs up the phone, smiles at Cobb and pats him on the shoulder as they engage in yet more hushed conversation. They’ve been doing this since Eames suggested Cobb sat shotgun so that a pouty Yusuf could get some rest at the back. Arthur still hated the idea, even though it had been a good one since Yusuf was immediately out like a light while Mal attended to his knee with gentle fingers. A lot more gentle than Eames would have been as he’d so blatantly expressed after tossing the first aid kit on the seat beside Arthur.

 

“I don’t like him,” Arthur says for the third time.

 

“He’s not so bad,” Mal chimes in, lifting up a large piece of bacon from the monstrosity in her plate before shoving it into her mouth. Arthur knows she can only possibly be thinking this because Cobb bought them food and for such a tiny, delicate little lady, Mal certainly knew how to scoff down grease and sugar.

 

“It really isn’t a hassle,” Cobb had smiled, passing out the menus. Then Arthur had frowned when they all sang Cobb’s praises and ordered, even though he had told Cobb they were all perfectly fine without his handouts.

 

“I still don’t get why he’s being so nice to perfect strangers,” Arthur’s frown deepens.

 

“Maybe it’s because Eames was nice to him,” Mal shrugs. “You still do get some nice people out there.” 

 

It isn’t so much the words themselves, but more the way she says them, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes, which make Arthur know it’s an indirect accusation of his own inability to adopt such ethics.

 

“Maybe Arthur has a point. It is a bit suspect,” Ariadne says between sips of her oversized strawberry milkshake. “What do you think is in the bag?”

 

They all seem to instantaneously look over at the hitchhiker, inwardly analyzing his reluctance to part with the backpack that’s remained over his shoulders the entire time, in his lap only when seated.

 

“Maybe he has reason for concern considering what happened to all of ours.”

 

“For God’s sake. Mal, it’s just a burger,” Arthur rolls his eyes. “Hate to see how quickly you’d lift your skirt for a guy who buys you lobster.”

 

“I don’t think it’s Mal he’s all too sweet on if you ask me?” Ariadne nearly sings and it sort of turns Arthur’s insides out when Eames and Cobb choose that exact moment to share a hug. Which is just entirely ridiculous because perfect strangers have no right to be hugging each other in a diner. No matter how brotherly it may be. No matter how the backpack might be obstructing full contact on Eames’ side. It just isn’t natural.

 

“Maybe he travels from town to town seducing hot gay guys and collecting their-”

 

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Ariadne holds up a pointed finger at Yusuf. “Seriously, where are you from?”

 

“I’m just saying,” Yusuf shrugs. “Who knows what’s in that bag. It could be-”

 

Mal clears her throat just as Eames and Cobb return to the table, and Arthur is sure the pair are idiots if they don’t notice the awkward silence that immediately falls between them all. They way Yusuf smiles guiltily and Mal shifts in her seat. They way Ariadne pointedly stares at the backpack suddenly in question. The way Arthur is unable to hide his scrutinizing gaze on their new unwanted tagalong.

 

But Eames doesn’t seem to notice as he claps his hands together, seemingly happier than he’s been in quite a while.

 

“So your father agreed to wire us some money,” Eames says, then quickly holds up a hand as Mal is just about to protest. “Don’t worry, he still thinks you’re visiting family, he doesn’t know you’re with me. Relax, it isn’t the first time he’s been kind enough to help me out without too many questions. It will take a day to be processed so it looks like we’re staying here for the night.”

 

“What, like, in the van all night?” Ariadne frowns, seeming more worried than angry. Clearly still traumatized but acting brave like she always does so well.

 

“No,” Eames directs his smile at Cobb who takes a seat in the booth beside Arthur, unaware of the blatant glare he’s receiving. “Cobb will be paying for a lovely one star motel room of which we will compensate him for tomorrow.”

 

“But why?” Arthur can’t stop himself from saying before the words are already out. And all eyes are suddenly shooting between the two of them. Arthur and Cobb.

 

“Random act of kindness,” Cobb raises a brow as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, backpack held securely in his lap once again.

 

“Yes, but why?” Arthur doesn’t back down. Because Mal coos her appreciation and Yusuf reaches past Arthur to pat Cobb’s shoulder in a wordless thanks that Ariadne uncharacteristically blurts out loud.

 

“What is it to you, Arthur,” Eames finally drops down beside Ariadne, wrapping an arm around her. “Tomorrow you’ll have enough to run home to mommy, and the rest of us will proceed as ‘planned’.”

 

Arthur rolls his eyes at the air quotes before the words fully sink in. “The rest of you. All of you?”

 

“I don’t know what part of that is unclear, Arthur,” Eames says in a way that Arthur is entirely unaccustomed to. It’s the evasive way that oozes disinterest with the fact that he has to explain himself at all. It’s entirely too impassive and leaves Arthur feeling empty, unnecessary by the very guy who would’ve done just about anything for him only hours before. And Arthur realizes it’s this exact behavior, these exact actions that made Arthur lose Robert in the first place. Running away.

 

And Arthur doesn’t want to lose Eames – no, Robert. Arthur cannot lose Robert again.

 

“I’m not running home,” Arthur finally says. “I’m going with you guys. We’re finishing this trip.”

 

The disbelieving scoff that escapes Eames stings enough to overpower Mal’s sigh of relief and the playful way Yusuf ruffles his hair.

 

“So that’s settled then,” Eames is standing purposefully, gesturing for Cobb to follow. “Let’s go sort out that room then.”

 

Cobb follows without protest and Yusuf shoves the rest of his fries into his mouth before jumping over Arthur to join the apparently and suddenly inseparable pair with a little more enthusiasm than necessary.

 

It really doesn’t matter that Arthur suddenly feels as though he means next to nothing to Eames.  

 

Arthur had made it perfectly clear that Eames means nothing to him first.

 

Eames really _doesn’t_ mean anything to Arthur.

*****

 

“I can’t wait to take a bath” Mal drawls as they all saunter towards the motel room.

 

“I still think we oughta go and report those guys,” Arthur says more to Eames than everyone else, because Eames has suddenly seemed to adopt captain status. Cobb, his co-pilot. Arthur, absolutely nothing. Feeling even less with the way he slows everyone down by limping behind.

 

“And tell them what exactly?” Eames checks the number on each door as they go along, jingling the keys in his hand entirely too at ease. “Some guys we can’t even detail ran us off the road. In a car with no plates. In the middle of the dessert.”

 

“So we’re just gonna let those lunatics run free and do that to some other innocent victims,” Arthur goes on, ignoring the way Eames shoulders tense. “Steal and harass and maybe even do worse next time.”

 

“For in case you haven’t noticed,” Eames stops at a door and shoves the key into the hole with more force than necessary, “None of our folks know where we really are, we’re driving with a bloody baby-”

 

“I’m not a baby,” Ariadne shouts petulantly, proving Eames point.”

 

“-and I’ve got so many tickets on that car that driving without a license will be the last of my troubles if we go anywhere near the cops.”

 

“Wait,” Arthur shakes his head, “you’re driving without a license?”

 

“So if you want to make it to your precious Fischer,” Eames ignores him, “just shut up and let me fly this thing, or go to the station and get everyone escorted home in the back of a van. Me, worse.”

 

“This is not at all the way things were supposed to happen,” Arthur says, feeling exhaustion increase with the pounding of his head and the sting in his knee.

 

“Things rarely do,” Eames spares Arthur a glance for the first time in ages as he swings the door open. Unmistakable pain, a sadness framing his usually vibrant eyes. Pain that is quickly replaced by annoyance. “Grow up, Arthur.”

 

Then Eames brows shoot up, face a mixture of amusement and shock as they all file into the motel room.

 

“Speaking of things that should not be happening,” Yusuf says the words that everyone is thinking as they all take in the horrific display in front of them.


	9. Chapter 9

It isn’t like Arthur had expected a Holiday Inn. Not with the dodgy food and even dodgier patrons in the diner connected to the motel. The motel that is actually called an ‘OTE’ with the missing letters on the moniker above it. 

 

What Arthur hadn’t been expecting was the fierce stench of stale smoke that wafted around the two single beds that were honestly too tiny to carry two five year olds each. And that was even less disturbing than the shape of the mattresses, two halves of a heart that gave off the complete opposite vibe than the terrible designer must have had in mind due to the simple fact that the said two halves were separated. A broken heart which no amount of fluffy red bedding and cupid stitched pillows could make the entire concept any less depressing.

 

The roses on the curtains were as red as all four walls, a perfect valentine’s nightmarish matchup with the white carpeting. As white as a carpet can be called with all the questionable stains spotting the corners.   

 

“Who do you think would do such a thing?” Yusuf had asked, being the first one brave enough to step further inside, reaching up to hit the low hanging crystal chandelier with his fingertips.

 

“It was all they had left,” Cobb had said by way of apology. And Arthur would have made a smart remark were it not for the fact that he was honestly unable to do any better and Cobb looked genuinely apologetic. Arthur would have insulted Cobb were it not for the fact that he’d eyed a single sofa in the corner and it honestly looked thoroughly tempting despite the bright pink upholstery and cream fringe. After limping to it and throwing himself down, Arthur had figured out he was correct.

 

He’d been able to relax while Mal claimed a bed for herself and Ari with no complaint from the rest of them. Yusuf had to take the bed because of his bad back and Eames’ imaginary asthma seemed reason enough for him to take ownership of the small portion the half would be left with. And Cobb, valiant Cobb. Gentlemanly Cobb offered to take the floor. Because Cobb was a hero. A can’t-do-no-wrong hero. A rather handsome hero, Arthur noticed when Cobb finally removed his trucker cap and dusty blond strands fell into his face.

 

Arthur is the last to use the bathroom, soaking himself in the cold water of the heart shaped tub. The bathroom is twice as small as the room yet no less overly decorated. When he’s done, he squints into the mirror, face distorted by the painful red bulb above. And Arthur concedes that he looks as shitty as he feels, and feels even shittier when he’s forced to slide back into his smelly clothes. Because as disgusting as it feels, there is no way he is going to accept any clean clothes from fucking Cobb.

 

“Fucking Mary Poppins more like it,” Arthur spits at his reflection, remembering how Cobb had dug into his bag and pulled out a sleeping bag, a flashy, sleek IPad and fresh Basketball Jerseys for the girls to drown in while their own clothes hang up to dry overnight at all ends of the bathroom. “He probably hides the body parts right at the bottom.”

 

When Arthur looks down something catches his eye. Eames’ Swiss Army Knife must’ve fallen out of his pocket in his clumsy attempt to get undressed without hurting himself any further. It’s dark and thick, decorated and heavy in his palm. Dangerous but beautiful just like its owner. And Arthur is reminded of how Eames had felt, bare under his fingertips, solid between his thighs. Arthur is reminded of how Eames had not only pulled him out of the way from a potentially dangerous situation, but had also carried him back to the van. He’s reminded of how Eames agreed to this trip, despite the fact that the destination would leave Eames without the one thing he wants.

 

“Wanted,” Arthur corrects himself, also recalling every look that Eames has given him since Eames decided to do exactly what Arthur’s wanted him to do. “Wanted,” Arthur confirms, because nobody else is around to hear it. No one else is around to witness the sudden burst of unimaginable pain that hits him like a blow to the gut. Because Eames no longer even calls him mate. He is officially nothing to Eames.

 

When Arthur returns to the bedroom, he takes a moment to observe everyone before letting his presence known.

 

Mal is laying on the sleeping back with Cobb using the infamous backpack as a pillow. They are sharing a pair of earphones giggling like crazy at whatever it is they’re watching on Cobb’s IPad. Despite the fact that they’re on the floor, they appear entirely happy.

 

Ari and Yusuf are laying belly down and feet up on the bed that the girls have claimed as their own for the night. Despite the fact that they’re fighting over which channel to settle on and their legs seem to be battling even more than their elbows, they too seem entirely happy.

 

Despite all that has happened, being stranded and robbed, being forced to share a rundown bedroom with no definite assertion of what shit might happen next and when it might happen, they all seem genuinely happy.

 

All except Eames. And Arthur knows it is entirely his fault.

 

Eames is stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head and legs crossed at the ankles, staring into complete nothingness. Bare chest bathed in a coat of pale red light, its constancy once giving Arthur a headache before being put on display so beautifully against the tattoos Arthur once detested.

Eames looks truly miserable at the very same moment that Arthur realizes he just might want Eames to be the one he allows to make him happy.

Because true pain at the thought of losing someone only exists if that person ever meant anything to you at all. Maybe Eames has meant something to him all along. Maybe Eames has meant more to him than-

 

“Arthur,” Cobb snaps Arthur from his thoughts. “You sure you don’t want anything fresh to wear? The boys and I were thinking of going for a drink across the road later.”

 

“To a bar?” Arthur’s uncontrollable responsible side shifts into place before he can stop himself. “I mean, will we even get in?”

 

“Maybe you won’t,” Eames mumbles, but everyone hears it.

 

“It’s true,” Yusuf laughs, “You look like a twelve year old. Eleven when you pout like that.”

 

“Nothing a good button down can’t fix,” Cobb beams, assisting him despite how Arthur has been nothing but hostile to him from the get go.

 

“I never said he can’t get in,” Eames corrected, “I said he won’t.”

 

The grunt of agreement from Yusuf is only one of the things that makes Arthur make up his mind then and there. The other is that Arthur suddenly refuses to be the dud. The whiney bastard who’s done nothing but moan and plan and bitch since even before leaving home. The boring one always playing by the rules. Always too afraid to live. Too afraid to be happy. Too afraid to do anything at all for in case something actually happens. The dull Arthur who allowed Robert Fischer to slip away and who is now at risk of losing Eam- losing out on what should and could be the adventure of a lifetime.

 

“Know what?” Arthur pulls off his top and tosses it aside, not taking any offense by the way Ariadne picks it up with the edge of the remote and tosses the garment to the floor. Arthur is too busy trying not to blush, too busy using his peripherals to document how Eames is suddenly sitting up on his elbows. Eyes trained on Arthur, eyebrows touching his hairline. “I’m in too.”

 

*****

Arthur feels his stomach twist when he’s informed that the bar that they’re about to enter is not just any bar, but a gay bar at that. But he refuses to let his nerves get the better of him, forces his legs to keep moving because the rest of the boys seem too naturally enthusiastic, only slowing their pace when they look back to see Arthur is a few steps behind them. Arthur is thankful to be able to blame his pace on his slightly painful knee, exaggerating his limp, waiting for the real Arthur to return and will him to head back to the safety of their disgusting room.

 

Arthur feels his stomach twist further when he reaches out for Eames’ wrist, stopping him entirely even as the other guys enter with no more than a curt bow to the bouncer at the door. But Arthur has been planning to do this since buttoning up Cobb’s white shirt and he is not about to back out now, even though Eames’ startled look when he turns back is almost angry.

 

Arthur takes a deep breath, trying to keep calm because Eames looks ridiculously gorgeous in the too tight, black, short sleeved shirt, face lit up by one dim street light.

 

“I just wanted to-” Arthur sighs and drops Eames arm because Eames is still looking down at his. “I wanted to apologize, Eames. I’ve been a real prick the entire time…and I never once ever really thanked you.” Arthur chooses that moment to slip Eames’ army knife between Eames’ fingers, even though it takes a moment for Eames to take hold of it. And their fingers touch, linger unnecessarily long with nothing but the heavy weapon between them. And Arthur feels his heart slam because the last time Eames looked at him like this, through him like this, Arthur had been sure Eames was going to kiss him. “Thank you for everything. I really appreciate it. I appreciate what you’re doing for me.” And the last part is whispered, unrehearsed yet a complete relief to say, “I appreciate you.”

 

The bewilderment on Eames face quickly turns to something else. The softest smile he’s ever seen with absolutely no trace of arrogance or teasing. It’s breathtaking really, spectacular. It’s all-knowing and Arthur trembles as the realization dawns on Eames entirely. Arthur’s lips part on their own accord because he needs to correct Eames quickly. Tell him that it isn’t what Eames thinks it is. But even as that thought swims around in his head, it’s met with such doubt that Arthur feels himself move forward just as Eames moves forward too.

 

“My pleasure, mate,” Eames says, Arthur barely breathing against his unshaven jaw because he’s been pulled in for a brotherly hug when he’d been going for Eames’ lush lips. The two firm pats on his back that follow are even more painful than the way Eames ruffles his hair. Then Eames steps back entirely, nods his head towards the door with a tight smile and a clenched jaw, “let’s head in, shall we.”

 

And Arthur’s left to watch Eames’ back as he too enters the bar.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur would truly blame it on the alcohol had he not only consumed one tiny sip from his bottle which is _not quite like the larger back at home, but it will do_ , according to Eames. But his shot has remained untouched and his beer is forgotten and warm in his palm so Arthur cannot blame it on inebriation for him unable to focus on anything other than Eames.

 

It isn’t limited to his charming accent and the way his instinctive slang rolls off his tongue past crooked teeth with one charismatic anecdote after the next.  The smile that becomes lazier the more of his beverages disappear, lips that become shinier with every flick of his tongue. It’s absolutely everything about Eames.

 

It’s the smile lines that etch the corners of his eyes when he laughs, genuine bursts that vibrate the surface of the table beneath Arthur’s fingertips. Arthur’s fingertips that are gripping the damp wooden surface because the more Eames elaborates each tale, the more he uses his arms. The more his biceps twitch. The more Arthur finds himself yearning to touch.

 

To start at Eames’ fingers as he had touched then less than an hour before, but this time not allow the other boy to pull away. Not stopping after passing Eames’ wrist or halting after encircling the large arms that once boarded around his shoulders.

 

Arthur wonders if Eames has always been this amiable. Delightful. Downright sexy in an impossibly tempting sort of way that has Arthur yearning for all Eames’ attention to belong to him and him alone. But even though Arthur is sitting right beside him, closer than he cares to dwell on, Eames is too busy winning the hearts of everyone else to realize that he’s breaking Arthur’s.  

 

“I honestly didn’t pick up on…” Cobb waves his bottle around the table, then more generally around the bar when no one finishes the sentence for him.

 

“Didn’t know we were poofs,” Eames answers through a grin because Yusuf is laughing too much at Cobb’s confusion to answer, “as bent as a butcher’s hook, dear.”

 

Arthur winces.

 

“I just assumed one of you and Mal were-” Cobb clears his throat, “wait, does that mean Mal…the girls. Are they also…?”

 

“You can say the word gay, Cobb,” Yusuf offers, “it’s only Eames that makes it sound crude.”

 

“The little one is,” Eames says, throwing his lid at Yusuf who does little to doge the assault. “Mal enjoys penis as much as the rest of us. Maybe even more. French.”

 

Once again, Yusuf bursts out laughing, the blush high in Cobb’s cheeks clearly due to the conversation at hand and not just the warm buzz of his third beer or the humidity in the bar. Arthur wonders just how distracted he’s been because he has no idea how the conversation landed up here. 

 

“What our Eames here is so eloquently trying to say is that, Mal isn’t gay,” Yusuf supplies, since Cobb is still looking very much unsure of what part of Eames contribution is the truth or just said for laughs.

 

“But is she single?” Cobb finally blurts out.

 

It takes a second of silence before Eames and Yusuf are sharing the same all knowing, mischievous grins. But it’s Eames who asks in a bewildered pitch too high, “Are you sweet on our girl?”

 

“No,” Cobb grins and nudges Yusuf back when Yusuf knocks him playfully with his shoulder. “I mean, I don’t even know her. But she is…. gorgeous. You know how when you see someone for the first time and something inside you just knows….knows that this is the person I’ve been waiting for…I’m sorry,” Cobb chuckles, rubbing his head. “I’m sure I sound like an idiot.”

 

“No,” Eames says quickly, suddenly more sober. “I understand exactly what you mean.”

 

Arthur looks at Eames, hoping for a hint of something, anything. But Eames is staring blankly at his white knuckles clutching the bottle. And Arthur wants to say something because the silence at the table is suddenly deafening, heavy with the abrupt change in mood. And when Arthur looks at Yusuf, it’s just in time to see his friend raise a brow and look away. And in that moment Arthur needs to say something, anything. To explain himself, to apologize. To tell Eames that he was wrong all along. Arthur shakes because he can’t believe he’s finally going to do it. He opens his mouth and-

 

“What’s it like?” Cobb has a small smile on his face accompanied by acute curiosity. “Being with a guy? I can’t imagine it, what’s it like?”

 

“Well,” Eames lights up looking every bit as thankful for the change of subject as Yusuf is. “It’s just like being with a girl, only infinitely better.”    

 

“I’m honestly going to have to take an uneducated guess to disagree with you,” Cobb counters easily, swigging from his beer.

 

“Allow me to educate you then,” is the last thing Eames says before he’s rising to his feet. An entirely new wave of confidence squares his shoulders as he makes his way to Cobb’s side of the table so predatorily that none of them can take their eyes off of his every move. Then Eames is crouching down beside Cobb, starring up into wide eyes, commanding attention. Demanding. Hypnotic. So intense that when he takes Cobb’s face in his hands, pinkies brushing over Cobb’s neck, Cobb’s lips part dumbly just as Arthur feels his own do the same. Then Eames lips are over Cobb’s, demanding yet sensually. Gentle yet thorough. Parting, slipping his tongue in. Tasting. Sucking on Cobb’s lower lip, letting it hang between his plump ones before releasing in a way that leaves Cobb’s mouth hanging open.

 

“I dunno,” Cobb finally chuckles before licking his own lower lip, eyes squint from how close Eames still is. “It’s just really not for me.”

 

“Perhaps I’m not doing it right,” Eames smirks, “let’s try again, shall we.”

 

And just as Eames’ mouth reconnects with Cobb’s, Arthur breaks wholly. A burst of emotion heats from the pit of his stomach, dull ache rising with every sensation that Eames has poisoned Arthur’s psyche with. Infected Arthur’s heart with. Diseased his existence with everything Arthur hates about himself that Eames once readily adored.   And when Arthur stands too quickly on useless legs, it’s clumsily enough to knock bottles over, his own beverage spilling on Eames. But Arthur doesn’t care. Arthur can’t care about anything at that moment when the vital elements that make such emotions possible are crumbling with his lucidity. Arthur doesn’t care that he nearly topples Eames over on his persistent march out, or that the display has far too many eyes on him, everyone obviously assuming he’s drunk. Because his legs are wobbly as he marches through forgotten pain and it isn’t until he’s outside that Arthur realizes that his vision is blurry due to tears threatening to fall.     

 

Arthur isn’t quite sure how he gets to the van so quickly, but it’s pointless. Because it’s locked. His only escape is keeping him out. Just like its owner.

 

“Arthur,” its Eames voice approaching, boots thumping on the gravel of the otherwise quiet motel parking lot. “Arthur, what the hell is your problem?”

 

“It’s you, Eames,” Arthur doesn’t even try pretending anymore, showing Eames everything as he straightens himself up to Eames’ height when all he wants to do is collapse. “You are my problem.”

 

“I’m your problem?”

 

“Yes,” Arthur chokes out angrily. “You’ve always been my problem.”

 

“I don’t see how that’s the case since I mean nothing to you.”

 

“Fuck you, Eames. You mean-” Arthur breathes out sharply, because that close with Eames nostrils flaring and chest heaving, Arthur finds it terribly hard to think. “You don’t get it. You can’t just do things like that.”

 

“Like what, exactly?”

 

“Whatever the fuck that was back there.”

 

“And give me one bloody good reason why the hell no-” Eames doesn’t quite finish. Because Arthur’s lips are over his. And Arthur realizes he may never be able to put into words exactly how he feels, but he sure as hell can show Eames. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm so cruel, I'm leaving it here for the weekend. Final chapters up next week! Have a great one!!!!


	11. Chapter 11

It’s nothing at all like the kiss he’s just witnessed between Cobb and Eames. Not when Arthur is so starving that he accidently bites Eames’ lower lip twice before either of them even have time to close their eyes. And when Eames pushes Arthur away and his back hits the side of the van, Arthur is already reaching out for Eames’ collar, unable to let him go that easily. Then Arthur realizes that he didn’t have to worry about Eames denying him a chance to pour out his pent up desire, because when Eames returns it’s with more passion than Arthur knew a single man could retain. And with Eames suddenly in control, Arthur is left moaning; clinging to every bit of Eames he can grab hold of. Whimpering when his bare back presses against the cold door in Eames haste to feel more skin, then sighs when large hands soothe the evening chill.

 

It’s stupefying. The way Eames grows savagely hungrier by the second to the point of Arthur experiencing the most delicious pain he’s ever felt. Arthur has never been kissed like this before. Arthur has never been kissed at all. Yet in this moment Arthur is certain that he doesn’t want to be kissed any other way. Arthur tastes salt and realizes it’s his own forgotten tears. He tastes metal and realizes it just might be blood. He tastes Eames and wonders how he’s managed to deny himself of something as fiercely erotic as this for so long.

 

Arthur curses, reminded of Eames strength when he’s lifted off the ground embarrassingly easily. He ignores the apology whispered into his neck when his legs are forced around Eames waist a little too quickly. And the van shakes with them when Eames begins to grind into him. Heat building in Arthur’s gut. Heart pounding violently.

 

“Hey,” it’s shouted somewhere off in the distance. “Come on guys.”

 

Eames steps back, eyes wild, to see who has interrupted them. And Arthur’s legs feel even weaker when they hit the ground, making Arthur certain that all that kept him from tumbling over was support from the van and its owner’s arm still fastened tightly around him.

 

It takes Eames and Arthur five full seconds to realize who had disturbed them, then Yusuf five more seconds to realize exactly what he had disturbed.

 

“Oh,” Yusuf says, sobering slightly as the hamster finally picks up speed on the wheel in his head. “Oh…. Oh fuck….I mean, I’m sorry that I - I thought you guys were…killing each other.”

 

“You’re forgiven, bugger off now,” Eames leans back into Arthur even before making sure Yusuf’s moved and inch before Mal’s frantic hollering makes him drop his head on Arthur’s shoulder with a frustrated sigh.

 

It takes Arthur longer than he would’ve liked for his brain to start functioning, but the second it does, Arthur pushes Eames away. He had been kissing Eames, Eames had been kissing him. Yusuf had seen them; Yusuf knows exactly what just happened. Mal shouldn’t know too, nobody should know. Because Arthur is most definitely not supposed to be kissing Eames when they’re all traveling half way across the country for him to be with Robert. Good, decent, beautiful Robert. The boy he is meant to be with. That Robert.

 

“Have you seen her?” Mal is panicky, looking no less wonderful in a jersey and sweats that are two sizes too big, hair a mess and face flushed. Arthur thought he’d have to be the one controlling his breathing, but Mal’s heaving chest renders his anxiety nonexistent.  “Did she come this way?”

 

“Calm down, sweetheart,” Eames has one hand on Mal’s shoulder, the other on her cheek. At a moment like this, Arthur knows he’s not supposed to be thinking about how he knows exactly how warm yet hardened those hands are. “What’you on about?”

 

“Ariadne,” Mal says no less calmer, “she ran I away. She just ran. I tried to stop her.”

 

“What?” Arthur frowns, grateful that his question is a little less stupid than Yusuf’s, _“where?”_

 

“Just breathe and tell us exactly what happened,” Eames says. Arthur admires how he is the only levelheaded one in such situations.

 

“I don’t know what happen,” Mal shrugs, looking around as if she is wishing Ariadne will just appear beside them. “One minute we were talking like normal and the nextshe….. kissed me.”

 

It was almost comical the way Arthur, Eames and Yusuf all shared very different yet equally baffled looks. Silent ‘what the fucks,’ leaving them unable to say anything out loud until Mal looked as though she desperately needed someone to.

 

“She kissed you,” Yusuf says carefully, stretching out the words, “and then?”

 

“I told her no,” Mal’s face falls as if realization just dawns on her with a fresh coat of guilt. “I told her it’s wrong. I scolded her. I told her to never ever do it again. I didn’t mean it that way.”

 

Eames shushes Mal and pulls her close, wraps her in his large arms. “It’s not your fault, love. You did nothing wrong.”

 

Then Eames’ face bares the faintest touch of panic now that Mal is unable to see it with her face tucked safely against his chest. “She couldn’t have gotten far. We need to split up. Arthur, go down that way, I’ll head west. Yusuf, go get Cobb and start searching everywhere. Mal, my dear,” Eames finally pulls her face back into his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes past tears. “Go back and wait in the room in case she comes back. We meet back at the room every hour no matter what.”  

 

Everyone nods and wastes no time following Eames’ commands. Because despite Eames being Eames, he’s brilliant and intuitive and always in control. As Arthur runs down the road, it’s frightening how he realizes he’d follow Eames just about anywhere.

 

*****

 

It’s her quiet sobs that give her away and Arthur is grateful he didn’t have to go any further. The initial adrenaline rush had allowed him to run the first minute, but now his knee was just reminding him it wasn’t one hundred present alright.

 

Arthur sighs, creeping further into the alley just in case she decides to run again, but when he peaks around the dumpster and says her name, all she does is bury her face further into her bent legs against her chest. He slides down to the ground beside her, close enough to feel her heat but not enough to touch.

 

“It’s been some trip huh?” Arthur tries to be cheerful.

 

“Go away,” its muffled and between sobs, but he hears it anyway. No matter how hard she tries to hide the fact that she’s crying at all.

 

“I’m just saying,” Arthur shrugs, “Less than a day and already-”

 

“What do you know,” Ariadne finally lifts her head after wiping her eyes and nose on her bare arm, “all you’ve been doing is bitching the entire time.”

 

 “Fair enough,” Arthur nudges her shoulder with his own. “If it’s any consolation, I’m really sorry. About my behavior. About the bandits. About Mal.”

 

Ariadne looks up at Arthur, eyes red, lashes still wet, even clear in the dark.

 

“I guess she told everyone, huh,” Ariadne scoffs, trying on a nonchalant smile that shakes, giving away her true emotions. “Did you all have a big laugh? The dumb toddler is stupid enough to fall for the only straight person in group.”

 

“No one laughed, Ari.”

 

“Oh I get it,” Ariadne looks up and actually chuckles this time. “The pity outweighs the hilarity of it all. I don’t need anyone’s pity.”

 

“Oh, I know you don’t,” says Arthur, truthfully. “And I don’t feel sorry for you. Quite the opposite actually. You’ve always been so brave and strong. Now you’re brave enough to let yourself love someone against all odds. Brave enough to take a chance regardless. Strong enough to take that leap; express how you truly feel with a great chance of facing rejection. I really respect that about you.”

 

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes.

 

“I’m serious,” Arthur offers a smile and hopes it’s reassuring. “If I was even half as brave as you are I’d have been with the guy I’m _crazy about_ a long time. I wouldn’t have waited so long.”

 

“Okay, whatever, I’m brave and whatnot. Mazel tov. I deserve a medal,” Ariadne’s voice is readopting its usual feisty tone and Arthur thinks maybe he isn’t a total sociopath, “You’ll still never understand the pain of it all. It will always be different with you and him. Just loving Mal will never be enough. At least you _know_ he loves you.”

 

Arthur tries to fight the smile trying to surface. Eames really _does_ love him.

 

“He showed it all the time.”

 

“I admit I didn’t want to believe it,” Arthur thinks of all the times Eames made him a paper rose out of the learning material Mr. Miles would hand out in group.

 

“Because you’re an idiot, mostly,” Ariadne rolls her eyes yet says it with a sort of fondness that he’s never heard from her before. “You know, he talked to me. About you. Robert confided in me all the time”

 

“He sort of never kept it a-” Arthur freezes. Eyes going wide as he holds Ariadne’s gaze with a whole new level of confusion. “Robert?”

 

“Yeah,” Ariadne shakes her head as if Arthur is completely ridiculous. “Who else would I be talking about?”

 

Eames, Arthur thinks.

 

“Robert,” Arthur confirms. “Of course, Robert. I just mean…he spoke to you about me?”

 

“Just because you treat me like a total kid it doesn’t mean everyone else does,” says Ariadne, sounding more than irritated by Arthur’s befuddlement. Reading it entirely wrong. “He was totally in love with you. He just thought he really didn’t stand a chance, what with Eames’ endless courting. But its fine now because when you get there and he knows you did it all for him, he’ll know how you really feel without you even needing to say a word.”

 

“Yeah,” Arthur’s mind scrambles, a plague of emotions punching at his chest. All making perfect sense yet none at the same time.

 

“At least you get your happy ending,” Ariadne almost whines. “I honestly feel like I’ll never get over Mal. I love her so much. Everything about her.”

 

“Know what, Ari,” Arthur finally puts an arm over her shoulder. “Sometimes it feels like you never will, and it hurts every time you breathe just thinking about it. But then one day, something changes or somebody else comes along. Either way, you realize that person you thought was everything, the one you had to go the distance for, was never really _the one_ at all.” 

 

As the words hang around them, Arthur begins to wonder who exactly it is he’s preaching to. Then Ari looks up at him once again, frown on her face.

 

“How come you’re being nice to me all of a sudden?” she asks, brow high.

 

“Let’s go back okay,” Arthur chuckles, raising to his feet and pulling her up with him. She mopes on the way up but doesn’t push for an answer. “Everyone is worried sick about you.”

 

Instead Ariadne asks, “Can we not go back to the room. I’m not ready to see anyone yet.”

 

And Arthur agrees, because he too is not ready to see certain people yet either. A certain person.

 

So Arthur slips into the room and reassures Mal that Ari is alright. He grabs some extra blankets out of the cupboard and takes Eames’ car keys from the nightstand. He asks Mal that him and Ari don’t be bothered until morning and has to pry his arm out of her grasp when she begs him not to leave without at least giving her some details. Then Ariadne and Arthur spend the night in the van, talking each other to sleep.

 

Only Arthur can’t sleep.

 

Arthur spends the entire night weighing Robert versus Eames.

 


	12. Chapter 12

The sun has been up for exactly seventeen minutes and fifty five seconds when he suddenly hears a light knock on the door. Arthur raises his head from his task at hand, looks at his watch again before dutifully moving to slide the car door open.

 

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Eames beams at Arthur, looking clean and smelling delicious. It’s dark cologne that Arthur’s frightened he can immediately tell is not Eames’ own. His hair is still damp, raked not combed and the white t-shirt is far too tight around his chest and arms. Arthur can see each separate mound of muscle and the depressions that separate them. The hollow of his belly button.  The curve that leads down to his-”

 

Arthur puts his forefinger against his lips and tips his head to the side. Eames eyes follow and they both stare at Ariadne’s sleeping form under a lump of blankets for a second before Eames face softens. And it’s adorable, Arthur thinks. The way Eames really cares.

 

He places a hand on Arthur’s chest, pushing him back softly, allowing himself in. And Arthur takes a few clumsy steps back until he’s back in his seat, watching as Eames closes the door so gently that it doesn’t even click.

 

Arthur tries his best to resume what he was doing, even as Eames sits too close beside him so that their thighs are touching and the packet in his hand reeks of the sort of breakfast he’s dying for despite the oil stains on the sides.   

 

“So you’re the hero,” Eames nods towards the sleeping girl on the other seat, “How’s she holding up?”

 

“Well, she went from reciting memorized poetry about Mal,” Arthur squints his eyes comically, “to ripping up the secret photo of Mal she keeps in her training bra. Then she spent five minutes trying to puzzle it back together again, then she threw the pieces out the window. Then she spent another twenty minutes crawling around outside in the dark looking for the-”

 

“You’re joshing,” Eames eyes are wide.

 

“I am,” Arthur can’t hold his straight face any longer and his grin reaches his eyes. He can’t help but chuckle at the genuine laugh that bursts out of Eames from the core before he finds himself trying to quieten the contagious laughter. They both sober, Eames wiping away nonexistent tears while shaking his head. “She’s alright.”

 

“I take it it’s just between you and her then,” Eames accepts with not an ounce of jealousy, regardless of the fact that Eames and Ariadne have always been ten times closer.

 

“Pretty much,” Arthur nods.

 

“Look at you all _big brother_ ,” Eames’ eyes sparkle as he tries to get Arthur to hold his gaze. “Speaking of _big brother_ ,” Eames holds up the bag in front of Arthur and Arthur can feel his stomach nearly rumble with longing. “I bought you and Ari some breakfast. Well, Cobb did. But I’m delivering it.”

 

“Thank you,” Arthur takes it and places it aside, so as not to give away his eagerness.

 

“And the breakfast….” Eames’ fingers fold under Arthur’s chin and coax Arthur to face him fully, “….comes with this.”

 

“Um, Eames,” Arthur pulls away, Eames’ lips just brushing against his jaw. “I got this map from reception. We’re over here, right. If we take this exact route I’ve marked then we can make it to New York in less than nine hou-”

 

“Is this another joke, Arthur?” Arthur can feel Eames straighten beside him even though he refuses to look at him.

 

“No,” Arthur tries to act dispassionate even though he feels himself shake, the map in his hand stutters as well and so he places it on Eames’ lap. “I did the calculations and if we-”

 

“Even after last night,” Eames’ voice is hard and he throws caution to the wind in the volume department, “Even after that, you still want to go to New York?”

 

Arthur swallows, throat dry before braving a look up into cold, steely eyes. “That’s the whole point of this trip, Eames. Nothing’s changed.”

 

“Nothing’s changed,” Eames chuckles so terribly, crumples up the map in one hand and chucks it to the ground at Arthur’s feet. The car door slams shut so aggressively that it makes Arthur jump and starts Ariadne awake in a panic.

 

And Eames’ last words echo so loudly in Arthur’s head that he fails to hear all of Ariadne’s sluggish questions.

 

 _Nothing’s changed_.

 

*****

The truth is, every-fucking-thing has changed.  

 

Mal is in the back of the van with Cobb. Although she’s dutifully trying to look guilty, whatever Cobb is saying to her has her hiding chuckles with the back of her hand and trying to act as though she’s simply clearing her throat.

 

Ariadne is trying to convince an annoyed looking Eames to let her take the wheel because she apparently drives way better than he does. And no, he most definitely did not let her beat him all those times on that dirt track in those go-carts last summer. Even though she is finding humor in Eames threats about her limbs if she tries to reach for the wheel one more time, Arthur notices her quick glances over her shoulder to the back of the van every thirty seconds.

 

And Yusuf is sitting across from Arthur, eyeing him determinedly. Arthur doesn’t have to look in his friend’s direction to know it; he feels the untiring glare burning questions into the side of his face. Arthur prefers it this way, this wordless interrogation. If Yusuf has forgotten exactly how stubborn Arthur can be, this is the perfect platform for Arthur to showcase his finest work.

 

But Yusuf relents just as Arthur is actually starting to enjoy their game. He crosses to take a seat beside Arthur.   

 

“So which is it, Artie?” Yusuf continues the mute conversation they’ve been having for the past twenty minutes.

 

“Which is what?”

 

“Don’t play dumb, Arthur,” Yusuf frowns, voice low but eyes edgy. “Don’t you dare insult my intelligence and act like I don’t know exactly what’s going on here.”

 

“What’s it to you?” Arthur exhales tightly.

 

“What’s it to-” Yusuf catches himself and quickly lowers his volume, “what’s it to me? What it is to me, Arthur, is that even though Eames means nothing to you, he means a lot to the rest of us. And I am not going to sit back and watch you toy with him.”

 

“ _I’m_ toying with _him_?” Arthur finally fully faces his friend. “Me? Are you kidding me? Where exactly have you been the past two years? He’s been pestering the fuck out of me. All the sexual remarks and courting jokes.” 

 

“You’re the only one who took them as jokes, Arthur.”

 

“Give me a break. You’ve heard how everyone always laughs. He’s turned me into a practical joke.”

 

“Well, I honestly can’t speak for everyone else,” Yusuf folds his arms, slumping further into his seat. “But I was only ever laughing because for such a smart guy you can be real stupid sometimes.”

 

“And speaking of those _jokes_ ,” Arthur chooses to ignore the insult, “It’s Eames’ behavior. His behavior is what made Robert not take a chance on me in the first place.”

 

“No, Arthur,” Yusuf rolls his eyes, “ _you’re_ what made Robert not take a chance on you. And if you ask me, I’m really glad he didn’t. Because you would’ve just been content remaining stupid enough not to accept the fact that you’re in love with Eames.”

 

“Go to hell,” Arthur throws immaturely.

 

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

 

“I don’t have to-”

 

“Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”

 

Arthur takes a deep breath, ignoring the painful thumping in his chest and the ringing in his ears. He tightens his jaw and looks up into Yusuf’s eyes just as something green outside the window catches his eye.

 

A simple road sign that takes him back to when he was five years old.

 

_WELCOME TO DETROIT_

 


End file.
